


singing the sun into flight

by rievu



Series: do not go gentle into that good night [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/F, meeting each other and growing softly together in the face of war, rather than letting the war sharpen them again, the concept of rivals softening each other rather than hardening each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-23 01:47:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17674085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: “I do not forget wars so easily,” Morrigan bites out.That is true enough. Neither does Leliana. They’re in a war right now that has a far wider reach than the Blight did in its height: beyond Ferelden’s borders and pouring into Orlais, the Free Marches, anywhere Corypheus could touch. But the epicenter is here where Leliana is, just like it was before. Now, it seems like that epicenter includes Morrigan.// how morrigan and leliana heal and love each other in the worst world state





	singing the sun into flight

**Author's Note:**

> i wanted to explore the concept of morrigan and leliana softening each other instead of hardening like they normally would in dai. this is set in the "worst" game state, and as such, some character interactions may be slightly ooc due to the nature of the hardening.
> 
>  **tw:** some mentions of emotional manipulation / abuse (morrigan's relationship with flemeth, leliana's relationship with marjolaine), mentions of sex but no explicit descriptions

 “You’re here.”

Morrigan looks up from her wine glass and comments, “No need to state the obvious.”

Leliana rakes her gaze over Morrigan and finds it deeply unsettling. The witch looks very much the same as she did before with the same golden eyes and the same raven-black hair tied up in a bun. However, instead of wooden charms and Chasind carvings tucked into her hair, Morrigan now has jewels pinned in her hair. Leliana’s gaze drops even lower, and she has to keep herself from opening her mouth with shock when she realizes that Morrigan is wearing a floor-length ball gown in deep red velvet and a wide neckline.

 _“Why_ are you here,” Leliana finally clarifies.

Morrigan sets her wine glass down on a nearby platter of empty glasses, and the nearby lantern light strikes through the still-full glass and casts a red light over the other crystal glasses. Morrigan idly runs her finger across the rim of her glass, and the glass responds with a soft, resonant thrum. “Why, I’m here to help,” Morrigan says easily. “The express courtesy of Empress Celene of Orlais, in fact.”

Even her _cadence_ is the same, and Leliana fails from bristling against the sheer anachronism of it all. Never has she ever pictured Morrigan, daughter of the infamous Witch of the Wilds, to be in the heart of Orlais. Leliana tears her gaze away from Morrigan’s dress and snaps, “You are _not —”_

“Yes, I am,” Morrigan interrupts. She gestures over to Empress Celene from her place high above the ballroom floor and laughs, “Say hello to the imperial arcane advisor, Leliana.”

“How did you even manage to get this position?” Leliana asks, disbelief coloring her voice far too much than she would like. _Let it happen,_ she bitterly thinks. There is no one to hear, and Trevelyan and Cullen are occupying much of the nobility’s time here.

Morrigan raises her hands and with a single snap, summons a small flicker of flame that dances along the edge of her thumb. “Talent and skill, like everything else I do,” she smirks.

Morrigan looks so _smug_ , and Leliana finds that Morrigan wears the same smirk as she always did. But back in those days, everything seemed simpler despite being wracked by the Blight. Leliana sometimes wishes she was back in those days by Mahariel’s side. But now, Leliana finds herself pinioned at the side of a different leader, far more cruel and far more devastating than Mahariel.

Even based on outer appearances, Lady Adaline Trevelyan of Ostwick and Warden Isena of Clan Mahariel were polar opposites. One was a noblewoman and one was a Dalish hunter. Two people from two different worlds, thrust into different positions of power. But while Mahariel saved Ferelden, Leliana fears that Trevelyan will rip Ferelden apart and resew it together based on her own whims.

Morrigan snuffs the flame on her finger, and Leliana can’t help but think about how a woman like Trevelyan would have smited Morrigan for the flagrant display. Apparently Empress Celene cares less about mages than the Inquisitor does. Vivienne thrived here in the epicenter of Orlais despite her magic and ice. Trevelyan barely tolerates it at Skyhold, so Leliana can imagine the extent to which Celene allows magic to remain at her court.Actually, Leliana revises that thought in her head. A woman like Vivienne would _have_ to be here, playing the Great Game, whether she be a mage or not. She tries to compare Morrigan and Vivienne in her head and thinks that Morrigan might have been Vivienne if she lived in the Circle.

Morrigan clears her throat, and Leliana meets her gaze straight on. “Dazed?” Morrigan asks, amusement curling the edge of her voice in a rather distasteful manner.

Leliana wrinkles her nose and responds, “As if.” She glances behind her and spots Trevelyan on the dancefloor now. It’s impossible to miss the scarlet of the Inquisition uniform, but Trevelyan wears the red like she wears her bloodstains on her armor: with pride. Leliana looks down at her own uniform and pinches the hem of it thoughtfully. Red doesn’t suit her, especially with her red hair. She doesn’t know what Trevelyan was thinking when she assigned them all the uniform, but she cannot question her leader. Trevelyan would have her head if she did.

“You dressed in what I suggested for you,” Leliana decides to say instead. She turns around to face Morrigan again and gestures to her dress. “I thought you had forgotten it by now. It’s been so long since then.”

Honestly, Leliana wishes she was wearing that dress instead. Anything other than this wretched uniform.

“I do not forget wars so easily,” Morrigan bites out.

That is true enough. Neither does Leliana. They’re in a war right now that has a far wider reach than the Blight did in its height: beyond Ferelden’s borders and pouring into Orlais, the Free Marches, anywhere Corypheus could touch. But the epicenter is here where Leliana is, just like it was before. Now, it seems like that epicenter includes Morrigan.

Leliana observes Morrigan and sees a hint of pink dusted across Morrigan’s cheeks. Never let it be said that Sister Nightingale ignored an opportunity. Her gaze lingers on Morrigan’s cheeks as she says, “That’s true. It’s impossible to forget the Blight, but did you really remember that fashion suggestion?”

Morrigan lifts her chin a fraction of an inch higher as she crossly says, “I remember everything.”

Leliana pinches her temples and mutters, “Of course you do.” She reaches over to run her fingers across the smooth velvet of Morrigan’s sleeve. “It’s easier to say that you care, Morrigan,” she says in the lightest tone she can muster up.

“Oh hush,” Morrigan says sharply. “‘Twas only an answer for your silly question.” But she does not move away from Leliana’s touch. Perhaps time softened Morrigan more than Leliana expected. After all, time only made Leliana feel sharper and harder than before. But this is something new, something interesting.

“Alright, alright,” she says as she lets her hand fall back down to her side. “You _do_ look gorgeous though. You even remembered the neckline and everything. Thank you.”

“It is… It is no trouble,” Morrigan says. Even she cannot hide the surprise that flickers across her expression, but just like the old days, Morrigan grabs the surprise with a vengeance and tamps it down viciously. Her lips curve into a smile that let the points of her teeth flash in the light, but Leliana already knows what these kinds of smiles feel like. Ten years have not dulled Morrigan’s voice or temper, but ten years have sharpened Leliana beyond what she once was.

“Have you met the Inquisitor yet?” Leliana finds herself asking. The words fall off her tongue unbidden, but now, she discovers a burning curiosity about the question too.

“Not yet,” Morrigan answers. “And I suspect I shall be perfectly fine if I continue the night by never meeting her.” Her smile grows more pointed as she says, “I hear the Inquisitor does not take kindly to mages.”

Ah. That uncomfortable truth that grates at Leliana’s nerves. She dips her head in affirmation, and Morrigan sighs: a soft, sibilant thing that hisses and curls at the edges. Morrigan never had patience for the Chantry and its anti-magic doctrine, and Leliana is sure that the combination of Morrigan and Trevelyan would be nothing short of disaster. Trevelyan is the scion of the Chantry, the very paragon of Templar beliefs, and the center of this self-declared Exalted March on Corypheus.

“But are you interested?” Leliana asks. She sees the telltale hint of interest in the way Morrigan purses her lips and flicks her gaze beyond Leliana’s shoulder.

“Perhaps,” the witch concedes. She smoothes her hands down her dress, and small flickers of magic accompanies the motion. When she bends her head down, Leliana spots the sheen of silver pinned to Morrigan’s dress. There’s also a thin, gold chain looping around Morrigan’s neck, and Leliana suspects there is a gold pendant attached to the chain, hidden underneath the trimmings of lace and gold.

So, the infamous cold witch had a heart after all. A sentimental streak if anything at all. Leliana remembers Mahariel buying a gold pendant in the markets of Orzammar. Leliana also remembers Mahariel bartering for an intricate silver brooch with a large, gleaming gemstone in the center at the Dalish camp in the Brecilian forest. All were once gifts meant for Morrigan. Gifts that Morrigan apparently kept. So, Morrian still holds a torch for their Warden.

Leliana pretends like she doesn’t notice and says, “I can introduce you.”

Morrigan eyes her — heavy-lidded, golden, _gleaming_ — and sighs, “It had to happen sooner or later.”

Leliana swivels around and starts walking towards Trevelyan’s direction. She feels uneasy, turning her back on someone like _Morrigan,_ but she takes her steps towards the Inquisitor, one at a time.

 

* * *

 

Morrigan instantly dislikes the Inquisitor.

Never has she ever trusted the blind sycophants and the foolish, chanting idiots that comprised the throngs of people at chantries. After all, what worshipper would burn their own prophet? What god would abandon his people not once but twice? And what god would send this kind of woman to be some kind of divine Herald? Lady Adaline Trevelyan bears no kindness in the lines of her face. Instead, Morrigan can see the veiled disgust in her gaze when Leliana introduces her as the imperial arcane advisor. At least that one rumor was true.

The Inquisitor despises mages.

Morrigan goes through the motions: curtsy, smile, tilt her head just so. It’s times like these that make Morrigan vaguely grateful for the lessons her mother taught her, but she bites those feelings back. Ten years have faded the scars her mother left her with, but ten years were not enough to erase a childhood full of emotional manipulation. That was not enough to make it up. Nothing would ever be enough.

Morrigan listens to the Inquisitor discuss mindless things like Orlesian weather and the current atmosphere of the court, but underneath the vapid conversation, Morrigan can see the gears and cogs turning in Trevelyan’s mind. When Trevelyan asks about the popular nobles of the day, Morrigan knows that she’s searching for the people with the most influence and the most connections. When Trevelyan asks about how the gardens are so beautiful at this time of year, Morrigan can tell that she’s searching for any weaknesses in the Winter Palace. She’s a noblewoman; Morrigan _expects_ her to be good at the Great Game. But Morrigan is a player as well, and her acuity has always been one of her talents.

In fact, that acuity lends itself to good use when Morrigan meets the Inquisitor’s companions for the night. She sees the surprise and envy in the depths of First Enchanter Vivienne when the title of arcane advisor gets mentioned, and she sees the lovesick adoration and smells the telltale scent of lyrium on Commander Rutherford’s face.

These are the sorts of facts she mulls over when she decides on whether or not to make her offer. On one hand, she depends on Celene’s survival. However, she does not want to depend on a self-declared Herald out of all people. But then, Morrigan’s eyes latch onto Leliana’s face. She looks almost faded, worn out, _ghostly,_ in the shadow of the Inquisitor. This is not the Leliana she remembers. She remembers a horribly idealistic, vivacious, and faithful bard. Perhaps the Inquisitor was working her to the bone. Some people were like that: breaking other people down to use the shards of them as knives. Morrigan knows the nature of man; she knows what people like the Inquisitor do when met with failure. They beat the person they view as responsible. Oh, never the leader itself. Never that. But they beat the person, break them for their failure, leave bruises blooming along their skin in ugly, mottled purple. Morrigan bears the mark of failure on her own body as well. A bruise that faded on her skin when she was a young girl and a bruise on her memories that remains as dark and purple as the day she first received it.

 _That_ is what makes Morrigan hand the key over. That is what makes Morrigan tell the Inquisitor of what happened with the Tevinter.

And when Morrigan leaves, she murmurs something under her breath for Leliana and Leliana alone.

“Be careful.”

 

* * *

 

"L for Leliana,” Marjolaine laughs. “L for leash. L for the woman who always finds herself a new master to cling to.”

Mahariel tightens her grip on her sword, and Morrigan makes her magic swirl even tighter around Leliana’s former lover. The glyph beneath Marjolaine’s feet gleams a dark, sickly purple. _The color of a bruise,_ Leliana thinks. She doesn’t know why Morrigan’s magic is colored like that, like the mottled blooms of pain leftover from previous blows, like a kind of scar that scabs over and remains with you for the rest of your days. The bruise-like purple pulses with the rhythm as Leliana’s heartbeat, and she stares at Marjolaine with too many memories stacked up on her shoulders.

“At a loss for words?” Marjolaine asks. Leliana notices that her lipstick remains impeccably dark red despite her capture. She hates that she notices these things. “You always had a silver tongue all for so many different uses, so many different purposes. But I find you here, following the orders for another woman. You really can’t escape that, can you? L for Leliana, L for leash.”

“You’re wrong,” Leliana hisses. She feels numb, cut loose from any anchor that kept her feeling stable and centered. But she gets those words out at least. She watches Marjolaine’s face twist into a cruel and beautiful smile.

“It is up to you,” Mahariel says. Her voice cuts through the tension in the air, but Leliana can hear Marjolaine’s voice taunting her in her mind. _A leash,_ she thinks. _Am I always so easily leashed? So easily drawn to other places, other purposes?_

The world becomes indistinct and fuzzy around her, but Leliana thinks she can feel her tongue shaping out words. _Let her go,_ she says, once upon a time. Some kind of fog descends down and the world focuses on Mahariel and Mahariel alone.

She unsheathes her sword and stands tall in her Grey Warden armor. The griffin emblazoned on her breastplate gleams despite the fog, and Leliana squints to see her face. The outline of her expression becomes dim and faded, but as Leliana wakes up, she can still hear the last ringing tones of Mahariel’s voice.

_Stay kind, Leliana._

She can feel cold sweat beading on her skin — on her forehead, her shoulders, everywhere — and she clenches her clammy hands. Marjolaine is nothing if not an old and worn-out memory. Leliana gets up and readies herself for a long day. Still, when she slips on a new shirt, she traces her fingers along the line of her neck.

 _A leash_ , she thinks as she runs her finger across her throat. When she presses down, she can feel the fluttering rhythm of her heart, pulsing through her veins. Marjolaine was wrong. She was wrong. Leliana _wants_ to say that she is wrong. But somewhere, deep down, Leliana knows that it’s true. She bends her head easily and lets the wind — or others — take her where she may go. From Marjolaine to the Maker, from the Maker to Mahariel, from Mahariel to Justinia, and now, Trevelyan.

_For me, Leliana. If not for me, then for the Maker and His blessed world._

That was how Justinia justified her orders and decrees. That is how Leliana lives even today, under Trevelyan’s jurisdiction. But Leliana abhors Trevelyan. She would do anything to say that she was not leashed by Trevelyan, that she is _nothing_ like the Inquisitor who wields power and justice with an unyielding fist. But she stares up at the ceiling and remembers her spy’s blood on her hands. Butler, once her friend and now a traitor, and how the life ran thin and then finally out in his eyes.

_For the world._

Leliana does not know if it is Justinia’s leash still on her neck or her own conscience that keeps her here by Trevelyan’s side. But as she gets up, she feels too many voices, too many tones, resounding through her old recollections.

 

* * *

 

The Inquisitor allows Morrigan to stay. The goodwill of Empress Celene is not enough to keep a person like Trevelyan from throwing her out. If Trevelyan had to choose between keeping diplomatic relations with Orlais or killing a mage, Morrigan thinks that Trevelyan would calmly write a letter to Celene after washing Morrigan’s blood off her hands. That way, Trevelyan would be able to do both. And no one would fault her for it. In this day and age, Trevelyan has made her stance clear on magic, and her influence allows propaganda against mages to flourish in her domain. The templars within the Inquisition’s ranks would cheer for her death, and the few remaining mages in Trevelyan’s circle would see her death as a warning to stay in line.

Morrigan knows the patterns of nobles and rulers. She’s seen it firsthand in Orlais, and she’s learned about it from her mother. Her mother was strict in those lessons and taught her the folly of man. It was simple; power in the wrong hands corrupted absolutely. Perhaps even worse than red lyrium. But Morrigan navigates the ups and downs of Trevelyan’s mood with practiced ease.

The others notice. Josephine and Cullen are the only ones to match Morrigan in terms of enduring the storm that is Adaline Trevelyan. Josephine relies more on her skills and talents as a diplomat and ambassador to ease Trevelyan’s temperamental disposition. Love and lyrium make Trevelyan and Cullen soft and gentle for each other, but Morrigan knows that both will run out one day.

One day, Leliana asks her, “How does she manage to tolerate you?”

“Careful,” Morrigan chuckles. “You make me sound like some sort of vermin.”

“It should be the other way around,” Leliana grumbles. Her expression pinches into one of disgust, and that’s far more familiar to Morrigan than the subdued one she wears like a mask around Trevelyan.

Morrigan shakes her head. “Rare for Miss Chantry Sister to say something like that.” She truly does enjoy drawing the spite and sting out of Leliana with her words. It’s far more satisfying to see her sanctimonious words crack apart to reveal the iron lying beneath them. Oh, Leliana can be miserably and truly kind, but there is still the bard within her instead of the Chantry sister she likes to say she is.

Morrigan pauses. She tries to tear away a memory tugging at the edge of her mind, but it’s too late. She exhales out slow and steady, trying to keep old shades of the past at bay. Mahariel always asked her to stop teasing Leliana like that. “Leave her alone,” Mahariel’s voice murmurs in Morrigan’s ear. “Be kind, Morrigan. If not for her sake, then mine.”

“Mmm,” Leliana says. “You’re not answering my original question.”

Morrigan sighs and tries to keep her voice steady. She hasn’t seen anyone from the Blight and her past before. It must be the sheer novelty of seeing familiar faces once more that’s making her like this. “What is there to answer?” she finally says. “What, did you think I was incapable of handling someone like the Inquisitor? I can be friendly when I want to be.”

“So rarely you are,” Leliana muses. She doesn’t look quite pleased with Morrigan’s answer, and that makes Morrigan smile. She knows that Leliana likes answers, safe and steady in the palms of her hands. It’s part of her job as spymaster to do so, but before she was ever a spymaster, Morrigan knows that Leliana always liked knowing what there was to know. She supposes that Leliana is like her in that regard, but Morrigan prefers more esoteric knowledge and cold facts while Leliana seeks out tales and stories.

Morrigan settles for saying, “Perhaps I should ask why _you_ do not get along with the Inquisitor.”

Just as expected, Leliana’s eyes flash and she snaps, “I work well with Lady Trevelyan. I don’t know what you’re referring to.”

Morrigan blinks slowly. Such a strange sight to see a woman who deals with truths and secrets ignore such a blatant one right in front of her. Morrigan laughs, high and mirthless. “She treats you the way a carver treats his knife,” she says with a gesture: a knife-slit across her throat. “Carve away the rough edges, smooth down the sharpness, and do it all with precision. The Inquisitor and I have established the rules early on, and I simply abide by them. I serve as Celene’s magical advisor and contact while she gets on with ridding the world of a petty darkspawn magister. Simple.”

“That does not explain the way you manage to tolerate her through her moods,” Leliana retorts.

“Do you not?” Morrigan says. Her voice curls with amusement. “Such an appalling lack of skill from a bard of your caliber.”

Leliana narrows her eyes and says, “Do not try to tell me how to do my job.” Her voice is dangerous, and Morrigan notes how Leliana’s body tenses into hard lines.

“I am not,” she says more softly. Defusing the situation would be better for her. Less trouble, less business to deal with. _Be kind, Morrigan. If not for her sake, then mine_. She clears her throat and says, “I am simply pointing out a fact. And to answer your question, I would simply say that I am skilled in navigating the tumultuous moods of others.”

“Since when have you ever?” Leliana snorts. “You’re not known for your patience.”

“No, I am not,” Morrigan concedes. “But every person requires a touch of patience if they are to truly excel at their job. Besides, I have had… Experience, shall we say. I have had _experience_ with women of quick tempers and unpredictable thoughts from an early age.”

Leliana’s gaze narrows on Morrigan’s face before it softens. Morrigan would prefer anger, hard bitterness, cold fury, rather than the sickly sweet expression of _pity._ But that is what Leliana’s voice drips of when she says, “The witch. Flemeth. Your mother. She could not… I thought you were joking when you told me about those Chasind stories your mother used to tell you.”

Morrigan stiffens. She didn’t expect Leliana to remember such a small, little detail from years and years ago. Figures. A spymaster would have to have a memory of Leliana’s caliber to function well, and Morrigan curses herself for walking into this trap she inadvertently made for herself. Once upon a time, she told Leliana about how her mother told her bedside stories of a different nature. Even now, Morrigan shudders when she thinks about how her mother reminisced of the men she seduced into bed and how she disposed of them after. Morrigan even acted as bait for some of those men, and she shuts her eyes when she thinks of that memory. “Such a talented memory,” she says instead. Her voice grows sharper as she holds onto the shreds of her composure.

“Thank you. I’ll leave you alone then,” Leliana says. She leaves on silent steps, and Morrigan feels a mounting surge of emotion rising up her throat, ready to be shaped into sharp words that cut and flay. But she keeps her mouth shut. She keeps her words to herself, trapped in her mouth as her emotions simmer and boil over in her mind. She is better than this.

_Be kind, Morrigan._

 

* * *

 

"They say nothing ever breaks,” Marjolaine once said.

“Then what happens?” Leliana asked, tilting her head up to look at Marjolaine.

Marjolaine looked like a seductress, a woman of the world and the nights that stretched beyond Leliana’s sight. Her eyes were lidded, and she reached out to stroke Leliana’s hair before she pulled Leliana closer by her neck. “Things bend,” she answered, voice dangerous and siren-like. Marjolaine’s other hand trailed further down Leliana’s body, almost distracting Leliana from her next words. “Things change, but nothing ever breaks, my dear. You do what you can with whatever you have left.”

If this wasn’t a break, then Leliana doesn’t know what to call this chasm that stretches between Morrigan and herself. She sits across from Morrigan in the gazebo, eating her meal with little conversation between them both. If Trevelyan didn’t specifically assign Leliana to do this, then she would be ensconced in her rookery, burying herself with work like she always does. Trevelyan insists that Morrigan must be watched over, but Morrigan evades the scouts’ watchful eyes with magic, stealth, and skill honed over years. Trevelyan does not take kindly to that and orders Leliana to watch over her. Well, Trevelyan didn’t specifically say that. She said, “Why don’t you befriend her, Leliana? After all, you knew each other during the Blight, no?” Leliana remembers the way Trevelyan’s lips lifted up in a smile. Enough to reveal the sharp points of her canines. “I’m sure you could ingratiate yourself to her. Do so. With haste, please and thank you.” A saccharine sweet smile. A nod. An order from the Herald of Andraste herself phrased as nothing more than a simple suggestion.

“Are you so weak and gentle now?” Morrigan says. The clean-cut tone of her voice startles Leliana out of her thoughts. Her knife deftly slices across the cut of meat on her plate, and the clink of the metal against the plate repeats in time with her words. “So weak that you listen to that woman’s beck and call? You would not be here out of your own volition unless _she_ ordered you to do so. Ah, but you’ve done it for so many years now, but to different women. I imagine that it comes easily.

Her words bite and sting like nettles in the Korcari Wilds. In that regard, Morrigan has not changed, but the differences that Leliana can sense are subtly different. Although her words are still sharp, Morrigan restrains herself. Leliana and Morrigan both know that Morrigan could be crueler, but she is not. When Morrigan says what she says, there is no smirk that plays around the corners of her lips. She does not delight in being cruel which is the opposite of what Leliana remembers.

“I worked for Divine Justinia because we were working for a better world. For the Maker and for His blessed world,” Leliana says. “I work for the Inquisition because I believe it is the way to put everything back to order.”

“Attempting to impose order over chaos is futile,” Morrigan says. She sets the knife down now. “Nature is, by its very nature, chaotic. Do not give me ‘faith’ as an answer either. You cannot look at that woman and call her an incarnation of faith.”

Leliana doesn’t deny that. Morrigan notices the absence of a reply. Instead of pouncing on the opportunity, Morrigan leans back and observes her. Leliana presses her lips thinly together. _Nothing ever breaks._ Marjolaine’s whisper resounds in her memory and in the silence that passes between them, and Leliana finds herself at a loss for words. Rare, if ever. If she ever lapses into silence, it is usually at her own bidding, her own will. A bard is never at a loss for words, but here Leliana is, waiting under the weight of Morrigan’s golden gaze.

Morrigan sighs and picks her knife again. “She cuts the world apart. It seems like she is doing the same to you.”

“She is not,” Leliana says. Her tongue feels heavy as she shapes the words out. “I chose this.”

“A poor choice.”

“A choice I made.”

Morrigan laughs. Short, low, bristling. “So, all choices that you make are to be perfect and pristine?” she inquires.

“I made no such claim,” Leliana says. Her hand tightens on her fork, making her pale knuckles whiten even more. Her hands feel bare without her gloves, but she couldn’t wear them to brunch. Josephine insisted that it was too crass, that if she was going to wear gloves, she had to wear lace or white kid gloves. Those flimsy white pieces of fabric are no substitute for smooth leather worn to buttery softness, leather that guides and protects her hands as they do her sharp bidding. No. She would rather not wear gloves at all, so they are out in the open with no leather to hide them from the outside.

Morrigan rolls her eyes. “No doubt you thought it,” she says before she settles down to eat. The conversation lapses into silence, and Leliana eats as well. The food feels like sawdust in her mouth, and she keeps her utensils in a tight grip, tighter than she ever held her daggers.

Leliana would almost prefer her daggers. Fights are simple, and the language of war and conflict requires only two things: blood and sweat. The quick contraction of muscle and the motion of the blade in action, the dance of battle, dexterity and strength coming together in deadly harmony. Fights always were so simple during the Blight. Kill the darkspawn before they kill you. They had no humanity, no conscience, no light within their eyes when she killed them. Nothing like the victims she handled after the Blight and after Mahariel’s death. Decisions lying on her shoulders and orders from above. A lifestyle reminiscent of one she used to lead in Orlais as a young girl.

Leliana mentally catalogues her own store of daggers on her person. She has two in her boots, two hidden under her tunic on her thighs, three strapped in the inside lining of her heavy cloak, and a tiny one encased within a small statuette of Andraste hanging from her neck and lying between her breasts. Under the table, she reaches to check and see if her daggers are safely there. Yes, they are. She quiets her breaths until she’s almost silent as night.

No, Leliana does not think her choices were always so pristine. The blood on her hands and her daggers beg to differ.

 

* * *

 

The rookery is a comfort to Leliana. In the early morning, when she sets her messages to flight, she watches as her ravens blacken the skies with their ebony wings and countless, gleaming eyes. They rise up before following the line of the horizon and going off on their own separate ways. Their return will all be at different times — perhaps at sundown, perhaps at night — but their departure will be the same at the very least.

Leliana sinks down into her chair and glances over at the papers stacked up on her desk. Every single one is in a cipher or a code, and she picks up one to glance over the various pictures and squares drawn on it. Baker’s work, no doubt. That one out of her coterie of agents preferred using pictograms and drawings to express their messages. Based on the line and the squares marked over it, the Venatori are making advances along their western front. Trevelyan assigned Cullen to the work when the matter first came up at the war table, but Leliana and Josephine had their doubts. Now, those doubts were fully realized. The Venatori could move faster and slip past the armored regiments marching around with more ease than a nug in the Deep Roads. Leliana’s face pinches with frustration as she burns the paper. She _tried_ to tell Trevelyan that it wouldn’t work, that armor and swords were not the solution to every miserable thing on Thedas, that even Josephine could do a better job than Cullen here with her tact and connections. But no. Trevelyan chose her military as she always did.

Leliana moves on to other messages. One of her agents, Weaver, sent a report from Orlais coded as a recap of a recent ball. Among mentions of satin dresses and ivory masks, Leliana finds something alarming. Some of Josephine’s contacts are beginning to waver after the bloodbath at Halamshiral and the growing strength of Trevelyan’s armed forces. She would have to tell Josephine about this. One message from Cobbler begs for more resources and reinforcements in the Fallow Mire. Another from Farmer claims that the templars and foot soldiers are taking more of the scouts’ resources in Emprise du Lion. Leliana presses a hand to her forehead and tries to keep her impending headache from consuming her.

A soft croak and a caw startles her out of her work. Leliana glances up to see a lone raven, perched on the edge of her desk. It cocks its head and lets out another caw before it hops over to her. There is no message tied onto its leg, and Leliana doesn’t recognize it from her own personal ravens. Perhaps this was a noble’s raven. The healthy sheen of its feathers and its large body certainly indicated that it was taken care of. “Now, where did you come from?” Leliana murmurs. She reaches into her desk drawer where she keeps some of her treats for her ravens. She extends her hand out, palm up and treat in hand, and says, “Perhaps one of the nobles’ ravens?”

The raven regards her for a moment, and Leliana blinks when she sees golden eyes instead of black. Perhaps this was a variant or a different breed preferred in aristocratic circles now. All of her own ravens are simple, common ravens with dark, intelligent eyes. This one seems even more self-aware, but it finally hops over and delicately takes the treat away. She barely feels its touch, even through the gloves. Normally, her ravens peck at her hand for food, and some of her gloves have marks from their beaks all over the palms. It makes another soft, croaking sound, almost as if it were trying to chirp, and Leliana can’t help but smile. It curves slowly, gently, around the edges of her lips and she reaches out to stroke its glossy feathers. It allows her and preens under her touch. “Such a lovely bird,” Leliana says. “A surprise to see you here, but a welcome one.”

The raven hops on her glove and balances itself before making its way up her arm. Leliana laughs and lets it stay. She continues to read through her messages, sorting through ones that need to be handled right away and those that can wait for another day. There’s only one that she needs to double-check the code for, but other than that, she gets through them all. Now, she has a mountain of other paperwork regarding other branches of the Inquisition, personal complaints, and business dealing with Trevelyan herself.

When Leliana moves to stand up, the raven on her shoulder flaps its wings, trying to right itself again. “My apologies,” Leliana says with a gentle pat to its back. “I should’ve warned you.” It caws in response and flutters off her shoulder to perch on the desk again. It regards her with an abnormal kind of intelligence, but Leliana almost expects it from her birds now. This one isn’t from her own flock, but she supposes that anyone can train intelligence into a raven. She contemplates the concept as she watches the raven fly out the still-open window.

Training intelligence into someone wasn’t an easy task, but it wasn’t impossible either. It wasn’t as simple as ticking a check-mark or adding a point onto another person’s soul. No, it wasn’t like that. It was the accumulation of experiences, lessons taught and learned, memories and sensations that showed you the difference between right and wrong. Different people taught with different styles. Marjolaine taught with the soft touch of velvet, the keen edge of a knife, and a careful waltz exactly on rhythm. Mahariel taught with a laugh, a hunter’s bow, courage and hope and grief carefully hidden away in her eyes. Mahariel also taught with sacrifice: a death too quick, a death too bright, a death too soon. Justinia _(Dorothea)_ taught with a low hum — transforming the Chant from dry words on paper to song and sound — and voiceless orders and decrees wrapped in red silk ribbons. Leliana doesn’t know how many past lessons she carries with her: how many marks from others, how many memories carved with the mistakes she’s made, how many values she’s held on to. So much influence from so many people, pulling her in so many different directions. But that is what she mulls over every time that mysterious raven returns.

Because the raven _returns._

Not every day, but at least several times every week, the raven returns. Just like the first time, Leliana allows it to stay in her rookery and perch on her shoulder if it likes. After it comes back around four times, Leliana leaves an extra perch stand beside her desk and a small dish of seeds and fruit next to her paperweight. The raven preens and caws when it sees what Leliana prepared, and it returns even more frequently after that.

Leliana is comfortable here. The rookery isn’t perfectly quiet; the wind whistling by her window and the sound of ravens fluttering in and out prevent perfect silence from settling over the rookery. But this is preferable, this is better. The sound of feathers taking flight, of the world spinning from wind to wind, breeze to breeze, is better than the absence of sound altogether. This is a place where she possesses her time to herself with no one else aside from the words of her scouts scrawled out on paper.

She sings to her ravens, time to time. There is no one else to listen aside from the few people within the library and Solas down below in the rotunda, but the sound of the wind outside her window tears the song away from their ears. Trevelyan rarely comes to the tower, preferring to stay on the grounds to watch over her troops — and no one else uses the library. The only person she sees regularly is Dorian and Solas, and even then, Leliana suspects that Trevelyan will soon kick the mages out. But Leliana sings.

She sings songs that she’s carried over the years, carefully collected from the stories and tales of many others. Soft mountain melodies that speak of small white flowers dotted over the hills, Fereldan country songs about Calenhad and his legacy, even Antivan songs that she once learned from Josephine. The ravens settle down and calm when they hear her songs, and the raven on Leliana’s shoulder roosts more comfortably on her shoulder to hear the song better.

Leliana stops singing when she reads the next note. Trevelyan has killed one of her scouts.

 

_Sister Nightingale,_

_I discovered that one of your scouts in the Exalted Plains — Watcher, I think she was called — was an apostate. As such, I have taken the liberty of disposing of her. I do not think you knew of her status as an apostate. Otherwise, you would have asked me for permission and for approval before hiring her and dispatching her out on missions. I am sure you understand our principles when it comes to matters of magic._

_Best regards,_ _Lady Inquisitor Adaline of House Trevelyan_

 

Leliana sets the immaculate note down. Perfect handwriting, perfect signature, all with the same swoop and seal that the Inquisitor attaches to all of her official notes. Her thoughts wander over to Watcher. She was an apostate city elf that tried to pickpocket Leliana in a Val Royeaux market. Instead of feeling the soft brush of fingertips against her clothes, Leliana felt the electrifying touch of magic instead. Leliana let her hand drift away from her hidden dagger in favor of clamping her hand down on the young girl’s shoulder. And then, she offered the plucky elf a job instead of letting her go. At least the girl would be safer under her watch instead of being at risk of being caught by a templar in Val Royeaux, the heart of the Chantry and the foundation of the Sunburst Throne.

Leliana thought wrong.

She holds onto the edge of her desk, trying to tamp her grief down, but fails absolutely. She should be over this. She should know better. She should know that Trevelyan would be like this. The Inquisition’s leash around Leliana’s neck feels tight, makes her throat close up from grief and despair, and she chokes on her thoughts. She played a dangerous gamble when she added mages within her network of spies, and it was a gamble that she lost. This shouldn’t be new to her. She’s killed members of her own network before. _This shouldn’t hurt her like this._

But it does.

Dorothea — _Justinia_ — told her once, “Be careful, Leliana. Someone will find your heart too soft and use it for their own.” Justinia was correct. That’s why Leliana locked her heart away when she first became the Left Hand. Setting feelings aside in favor of steel, shadows, and raven wings were far easier than dealing with this. She could get vengeance for this. Pay a life for a life, blood for blood. A simple trade-off, blow for blow, shouldn’t be too difficult for her. She has killed men for less than this. Trevelyan should know this. She saw Leliana kill Butler for the life of another spy and even congratulated her on the quick decision.

But Mahariel’s voice resounds in her mind like a ghost. A ghost of a memory, a shade of the past, whispering in susurrant tones that sound both like ages or a day ago. Neither, but both. “Stay kind, Leliana,” Mahariel once told her with a sheathed sword by her side. “There are so many hard and difficult things in the world. But, it is a harder feat to stay soft while facing them. Kindness is its own gift.”

“But it’s hard,” Leliana whispers out loud. “It’s so _hard_ to be kind, Mahariel.”

The raven on her shoulder stills, and Leliana clenches the edge of her desk. “You made it look so easy,” Leliana says despairingly. “And you made decisions so quickly and confidently while staying _kind._ I wish you were here, Mahariel.” She pulls the note closer to read the words again before she drags herself to stand up on her feet again. She sways and steadies herself against the worn wood. “I wish you were here,” she repeats in a hopeless whisper. “I don’t want to be kind anymore if I ever was.”

The raven hops off her shoulder and flutters onto the desk. It lands and tilts its head at Leliana before it regards the letter. If Leliana didn’t know any better, she would say that the raven was reading the note. It moves over to peck at the letter with a viciousness that startles Leliana. “Are you hungry?” she asks. She drifts over to rummage in her small pouch of treats hanging from a hook on the wall. She fishes out some crumbles of dried meat and holds it out for the raven. It looks at her almost disapprovingly before it nudges Leliana’s wrist and ruffles its feathers against her skin. It does not eat which Leliana finds confusing. Food has never failed to sway her ravens before when it comes to training. The raven hops over to peck at the letter once more and manages to tear a small hole in the fine, creamy-white stationery Trevelyan favors. The ink and words smudge where it pecks, and when the raven is satisfied, it hops back up on Leliana’s wrist to make its way up to her shoulder.

Leliana sets the dried meat aside and moves to toss the note into the fire. “She is… Trevelyan is difficult,” Leliana confides. “And sometimes, I wonder if we are going too far. If this is what the world needs. But if the world didn’t need it, then why would be here like this?” She shakes her head. “It was so much easier to follow directions. Silence the voice and bear the burden. Follow orders, no matter how much blood got on my hands. But I wonder if we — if _I_ — have crossed the line.” She laughs at herself now. “Look at me. I’m confiding my troubles to a _raven._ I suppose it’s better than trying to tell Cullen, that besotted fool. Or Josephine. I fear that Josephine is crossing the line and becoming a war herself.”

Leliana bends her head and watches the letter crumble into ash. “It is… Simply difficult to be kind during a war,” she says. “and I don’t know how Mahariel did it.”

Another bitter, broken laugh.

“But Mahariel, for all her kindness and glory, did not survive the war.”

 

* * *

 

_Eleven years ago._

 

Mahariel tells her that she first met Morrigan in the Korcari Wilds.

That was when she was still in Clan Mahariel and long before she joined Clan Sabrae. Mahariel was five and Morrigan was six, and both of them were young, foolish girls who found more joy playing with frogs and puffed elfroot blossoms rather than anything else.

Morrigan doesn’t remember this as well as Mahariel describes this. But she does remember a small, slight elven girl. Morrigan remembers running in the form of a bear cub and finding a girl instead of the prey she was hoping for. Mahariel didn’t run or hide. Instead, she came up to the cub and immediately began crooning to it, singing soft lullabies under her breath, as she approached.

Morrigan looks at Mahariel. The world is quiet, save for the crackling of the campfire and the soft snoring of Mahariel’s mabari in the corner. Everyone else is fast asleep except for them. First night watch is almost always quiet like this. Mahariel bites her lip when she concentrates on things, and she bites her lips now. “Yes, I think that was it,” she murmurs. “You were older than I was by a single winter. I remember this because I was so startled to find a girl in the shape of a bear.” The corners of her lips turn up. “Or a wolf or a cat or a raven or a spider.”

“Do the Dalish clans not harbor such magic?” Morrigan asks. She arches an eyebrow as she studies Mahariel’s expression.

Mahariel shrugs. “Not in Clan Mahariel. We were too large, too many people in a single clan to survive, but even then, we did not have a single shapeshifter. My parents and I moved to Clan Sabrae after the Korcari Wilds, but even then, there were no shapeshifters there. Perhaps in a different clan. I hear the clans of Orlais are good at changing their faces, at holding onto old traditions and old magics. Like the masks the _shemlen_ wear in that country except more real than anything else.”

“Fools, all of them,” Morrigan laughs. “Hiding behind masks does them no good.”

Mahariel turns her reflective gaze to Morrigan and asks, “Have you ever been to Orlais?”

Morrigan casts her gaze away from Mahariel’s face to the fire. “No,” she admits. “But I have heard many stories and many tales to confirm that statement.”

“I do not know much about Orlais,” Mahariel says. In the corner of Morrigan’s eyes, she can see Mahariel twisting her hands together in a knotted fist. “Someone I used to know, my lov— my _friend_ — used to tell me stories that he heard from other clans and traders about Orlais. His name was Tamlen, and he loved stories of the world.” Morrigan raises her head just in time to glimpse Mahariel pressing her lips firmly together in a thin line.

This is another thing that Morrigan notices about Mahariel. She never breaks or cries or snaps in the worst situations. She only retreats into herself until there is nothing left of herself on her expression. Morrigan doesn’t know why she notices this so much. Or rather, she doesn’t know why she finds herself captivated by Mahariel so much. She, out of every single other person in this motley group, manages to draw her in and makes her wish she could unroot all the sadness and the secrets out of her. _You’re only here because you’re here for something at the very end,_ she tells herself mentally. She tries to summon up her mother’s words but she fails. Instead, she focuses completely on Mahariel’s grey eyes.

Her eyes gleam silver in the campfire and turn the firelight from a orange-gold to a silver cast when it reflects off her irises. A leftover side-effect of the Taint, according to Mahariel. Her eyes were not always silver, but Morrigan still finds them beautiful. She lifts her hand to tuck a strand of hair behind Mahariel’s pointed ear. That too is pale silver streaked through with small traces of Mahariel’s original black. There are small, spidery veins that are a touch too dark across her tawny brown skin. She supposes that Mahariel became a Warden at the very latest, just before the thin line between simple taint and wretched ghoul. Although, Morrigan does admit that there is nothing _simple_ about taint.

Mahariel turns her head and gazes directly into Morrigan’s eyes. Gold and silver. A matching set. That thought speeds Morrigan’s heart only by a fraction of a second, but she’s left even more breathless when Mahariel leans in to leave a gentle kiss on her cheek. “Then, perhaps we will travel to Orlais together,” she whispers against Morrigan’s skin, like a secret, like a precious treasure, like a promise. “We can travel the world and find so many stories together if you would like.”

Morrigan swallows hard. She can’t, she doesn’t know how, she has never… Morrigan doesn’t know how to handle this. This is too soft. All the boundaries seem too tenuous. This isn’t what they’ve done before. This… This casual intimacy. There are no clearly defined lines like simple manipulation or sex does. She does not know how to love. She does not know how to care. She only knows how to break and bite and burn. Flemeth never taught her how to love. She only taught her how to survive and break the bones of others before they broke her own. But now, Morrigan fears that Mahariel will break her heart, and that is a wound that she does not know how to survive from.

Mahariel pulls away, eyebrows knitted together with worry. “Too close?” she asks.

Morrigan quietly confesses, “I would like to, but… I fear that I do not know how to do it.”

“Traveling?” Mahariel asks. She reaches over to clasp Morrigan’s hand. “We have been doing it for weeks now.”

“No,” Morrigan says. She looks down at their hands and how their fingers intertwine and fit together so perfectly. “I do not know how to love,” she admits, her voice cracking along the edge.

She hates this; vulnerability is not a flaw she wears well. But Mahariel’s expression collapses and remakes itself anew into a gentle, soft smile. “You do,” Mahariel says with all the confidence in the world. “You know how to love. You are simply too afraid to love. You do not have to fear love, _vhenan._ You have enough love to fill the world if you wished. You only have to let go of that fear.”

Morrigan stares at Mahariel before she leans in to capture Mahariel’s lips with far too much teeth and tongue. Mahariel laughs but lets Morrigan take her as she wishes. And Morrigan tries to love in the best way that she can and _tries_ to shed the feeling of inadequacy.

Because she still thinks that her hands can only break and burn.

 

* * *

 

_Eleven years ago._

 

Leliana tries to cajole the Warden into wearing pretty shoes.

It is a lovely Denerim afternoon. Grey streaks across the wide canvas of Fereldan sky but with more blue mixed into it. The air is crisp and cool — not nearly as damp as it normally was — and there is a stall at the market with Orlesian shoes. The sign declares that their shoes are hand-crafted by Nevarran artisans, but Leliana knows the mark of a good Orlesian shoe. Nevarran shoe styles are too rigid and favored blocky lines for the silhouette of their shoes rather than the slim, flowing lines and frilly embellishments on Orlesian shoes. But it makes sense. This is Ferelden, after all, and this is a country that has never taken kindly to its neighbour up north.

She glances over at Mahariel’s filthy leg wrappings, still stained with blood and remnants of corpses long rotten and dead by now. Mahariel scraped and washed off more of the solid bits and entrails stuck to the wrappings, but the stains remain no matter how many times she washes them with ice-cold water that Wynne and Morrigan conjure up.

Leliana clears her throat, and Mahariel’s gaze drifts from Alistair and her mabari to Leliana. “Is there something that you wish to purchase here?” Mahariel asks.

Perfect.

Leliana gives her a winning smile and blatantly ignores the scowl that Morrigan shoots her way behind Mahariel. “I wanted to look at that shop over there,” she says. “They have the prettiest shoes. You should come with me.” Before Mahariel can refuse, she tugs the Warden over to the stall. Mahariel allows Leliana to drag the entire party over to the shoe stall, and the merchant rubs his hands together, eager for new business.

“Welcome to my humble shop!” he cries out. Leliana looks him over and instinctively analyzes him. Old habits die hard, but Leliana knows that this man is decent at hiding his Orlesian accent. He’s worse at faking a Nevarran accent, but it’s passable enough. At least it’s better than the Orlesian woman across the street. Barely anyone buys her goods. The Fereldan bias is strong, especially in the epicenter of the nation here in Denerim.

“I was interested in some of your shoes,” Leliana says, not even bothering to hide her own accent. It dulls and rounds off the edges of her words and leaves them to quiet breaths, and the merchant’s eyes narrow on her. But then, he smiles. To find a fellow countryman in a foreign country is like a breath of fresh air, and Leliana understands the sentiment. She tips her head closer and murmurs in soft Orlesian, “I would like to see some of your loveliest designs please.”

“Of course,” the merchant says in simple Common. But he rounds around to the back and pulls out several boxes. When he opens the lid, Leliana can see some shoes nestled between layers of tissue paper that puff up to protect the shoe. She glances over at Mahariel who folds her hands together and eyes Leliana with some degree of expectation.

“Is there a particular style of shoe that you like?” Leliana asks.

Mahariel wrinkles her nose. “You know that I do not wear shoes,” she says dryly. She gestures down to her feet and wiggles her toes.

Leliana clicks her tongue with disapproval and says, “We will have to remedy that.” She clears her throat and calls out, “Monsieur, may we see some more functional shoes for my friend here?” He complies and Leliana pores over different designs. She likes one pair of shoes with topaz set into the toe of the shoe. It matches Mahariel well in her opinion. Another pair of shoes have bronze satin sewn over the sides, and Leliana thinks it would match Mahariel beautifully. However, neither are practical for what Mahariel does every day.

Instead, Leliana selects a boot with a smooth, flowing line as its silhouette. Zevran sniffs when he finds out that it’s not authentic Antivan leather, but Mahariel cocks her head with interest when Leliana describes how this particular type of leather is enchanted by the Circle of Magi in Ghislain to be proofed against liquids. She leans to to say, “That includes blood too.”

Mahariel lifts her gaze to meet the merchant’s eyes and inquires, “I thought this was a Nevarran shoe shop?”

“Oh, oh, of course it is,” he hurries to say. “We simply carry a wide variety of shoe styles here.”

Mahariel arches an eyebrow and asks, “Leliana, can you confirm this?”

Leliana shakes her head. Beside her, Zevran snorts, “Even a fool can tell that these are all Orlesian shoes.”

“It seems as though the entirety of this city is comprised of fools then,” Morrigan sniffs.

A smile spreads across Mahariel’s face and she gestures over to the wide array of shoes before her. “Then, I believe we can work out a deal. Our silence for a discount seems like a worthy bargain, yes?”

The merchant pinches his lips together but he knows when he’s beat. Orlesian shops do not make it long in Ferelden. He hands over the shoes with 30 less gold off the original price — a distinct bargain — and Leliana pays him. She holds it out to Mahariel with a bright grin. Mahariel shrugs and unraveling her leg wrappings from her calves and feet.

The boots fit perfectly.

Leliana leaves the shop, more satisfied than she’s ever been that day. There’s something about the act of giving that’s incredibly satisfying for her. It leaves a warm sensation in her heart, and she finds the boots to pale in comparison to all the gifts Mahariel has given her. The Denerim afternoon seems more hopeful than before, and she strolls down the street with a touch more happiness than what she started with.

 

* * *

 

Celene calls for Morrigan again, unsatisfied by her notes and letters and various reports she’s penned over the past several evenings. When she brings the matter up to Trevelyan, Trevelyan eyes her and asks in her infuriatingly sweet tone, “And do you expect me to send you alone, Lady Morrigan? Such a dangerous journey for a single _mage,_ no? I will send for someone to accompany you to Orlais.” The Inquisitor punctuates the word “mage” with enough emphasis and lets Morrigan know that she has no choice in the matter.

Morrigan, for one, chafes against the implication that Trevelyan could ever chain her down, but she must abide by her rules. For the sake of Celene, for the sake of diplomacy, for the sake of her own future plans. However, she never expects Trevelyan to choose someone like _Leliana_ to go with her.

When Morrigan arrives at the War Council, Leliana has her mouth turned down firmly in a frown. Josephine splits her attention between Leliana and Trevelyan, and although her countenance is amiable enough, her white-knuckled grip on her tablet says otherwise. Commander Rutherford seems perfectly content with the state of affairs. He simply waits for Trevelyan to the side, and Morrigan can smell the searing scent of lyrium clinging to his skin and clothes.

She wrinkles her nose. Templars. Once you fed them a single taste of electrifying blue, that was it. Done. Finished. Nothing could ever satisfy their raging blood and ravenous hunger for the liquid. _“Blood of the gods,”_ her mother once told her when the topic of lyrium and templars came up. _“Blood of gods deep underground. Their veins spread through the earth, my girl, and we drink it up. But templars? Those fools are like lambs to the slaughter, drinking that blood like it is nothing more than a blue mineral. They forget that they drink blood, drink life, drink song that once flowed through the hearts of titans.”_

“Ah,” Trevelyan says, looking from her map. “Good evening, Lady Morrigan.”

Morrigan can’t stand her. She stands there with a false smile and wide eyes, as if she wasn’t expecting Morrigan at all. A fallacy in every facet, this Inquisitor was.

“I assume you are here to discuss the travel arrangements for your trip back to Orlais?” Trevelyan says. She snaps her fingers, and Josephine presses her lips thinly together. However, the ambassador passes a paper wordlessly to the Inquisitor. Morrigan notes the way Josephine’s eyes flash when she passes it though. Even the ambassador with her legendary patience runs thin with Trevelyan. Interesting.

“Sister Nightingale would be _happy_ to accompany you,” Trevelyan says. She gestures over to Leliana whose frown deepens. “Our dear Leliana is more than capable of protecting you and watching over you during your journey. Unfortunately, our ambassador is slightly occupied with other matters. If she were able to, I am sure that Lady Montilyet would be traveling to Orlais with you to greet Empress Celene. The same issue goes for me as well. Please extend our apologies to Empress Celene.”

Meaning that Leliana would be able to watch Morrigan in Trevelyan’s stead. Morrigan finds it laughable at how Trevelyan seems to think that Leliana can keep Morrigan down. Morrigan doesn’t know why neither Trevelyan or Josephine are going to Orlais. She would expect them to be there to curry favor and resources and money from the empress. But then again, she would never expect such a prideful creature like Trevelyan to bend the knee. No, Trevelyan would be more likely to have Celene kneel in front of her throne rather than the other way around. Trevelyan still has blackmail on her hands involving both Celene and Gaspard and Briala. That woman has the entirety of Orlais in her gloved hand.

So, that is essentially how Morrigan ends up shut in a carriage with Leliana on the other side of the seats. Morrigan fumes in her seat. She would be able to arrive at the palace in half the time it will take her now. She would only have to shift into a raven’s form and ride the winds to the empress’s doorsteps.

Morrigan and Leliana share no words, but Morrigan can’t help but steal glances at Leliana. She knows that the spymaster hasn’t noticed yet since she’s busy going through letters of her own. Morrigan doesn’t think that Leliana knows who her mysterious raven is, but she can’t stop thinking about Leliana’s broken, defeated words from the rookery. Morrigan doesn’t like the sensation of pity. It’s cool and slippery, and she can never get a good grasp on it. She ignores the sensation in favor of twitching magic back and forth in the center of her palm. She knows Leliana watches, but she does not care.

Their silence continues even when they stop at various inns. Morrigan is forced to wait while Leliana checks their room for any traps and then falls asleep under the spymaster’s watchful gaze. She despises this kind of supervision, but she sleeps and she travels. But she also notices more about each other. They both keep similar habits with them from their Blight days. Morrigan always takes the bed farthest away from the door and closest to the window. Leliana still murmurs a snippet from the Chant before she snuffs out the candle or lantern light. But there are new habits. Leliana has a daily morning and night routine where she inventories every weapon she carries on her. Morrigan can’t tell if she has any new habits to her life, but she can feel Leliana’s hawk-sharp gaze on her.

On rainy days, Morrigan almost feels young again. Rain and muddy roads comprised the most dramatic year of her youth, and although Morrigan is not old, she’s not young as she used to be. A decade makes its mark as surely as the sea eroded away at the shore. Morrigan takes it in stride and smiles to herself while Leliana trudges through the mud. Silence makes Leliana seem colder now. Morrigan does not see as many smiles or as many stories on her lips. No, now the woman is a knife, forged for the killing, and Trevelyan uses her well just like Divine Justinia did.

When they enter Val Royeaux, the silence between them becomes insurmountable. No amount of murmurs and chatter from the city streets disturbs their mutual reticence. They head directly to the palace and cross various boulevards and streets in their haste to get there. They have to cross through the main square at least once though, and Leliana pauses.

Morrigan almost doesn’t even notice and continues her way onward before she feels the absence of a gaze drilling into the back of her neck. She groans and hurries into an alley to fall backwards. Morrigan lands on her feet as a black cat, and she pads out to try and pick out Leliana among the crowd. There are too many people here, but she scans through the crowd, searching for a pair of inscribed leather boots with daggers hidden in the heels and inside the boots. Those are Leliana’s shoes, and Morrigan figures that they’re distinctive enough for her to find amongst the crowd. Some people almost step on her as she wanders through the crowd, but she eventually spots Leliana’s shoes.

She steps forward and with every step she takes, she silently melts back into her regular form. When she’s right behind Leliana, she clears her throat and waits for a reply.

Leliana tenses when she hears the sound, and Morrigan sees her hand stray to her belt where one of her many blades is hidden. Then, she exhales slow and steady before she says, “I once loved pretty shoes.”

“Do you not love them still?” Morrigan says snappishly.

Leliana glances back at Morrigan, and Morrigan does not bother to hide the irritation on her face. “I don’t know,” Leliana says slowly.

Morrigan scowls. “‘Tis a silly sentiment. If you would like shoes, go ahead and buy them,” she says with a dismissive gesture towards the rack of shoes.

“No, no, I think I have too many shoes to justify buying more,” Leliana says. A glint shines in her eyes as she says, “But… We could buy you a pair.”

“What a foolish idea,” Morrigan snorts. “Let us move on. We are wasting our time here if we are only going to buy shoes for myself.”

Leliana eyes Morrigan carefully. “Would you have lingered here longer if I was buying shoes for myself?” she asks. A small, infuriating smile creeps across Leliana’s face, and Morrigan wants to swipe it off her face. Anything to keep moving. She doesn’t even deign to reply.

Whatever her expression might be, it manages to make Leliana laugh and tug at her wrist. “Come, let us revel in a moment of our own without any empresses or Inquisitors to appease for once,” she says in a rare moment of conviviality.

Morrigan groans but allows Leliana to drag her inside the shop. The merchant greets them with too much enthusiasm, and Leliana starts perusing through what the merchant has to offer. There’s a wistful look in her eye, and in that moment, Leliana looks more of who she once was rather than the razor-edged spymaster she was supposed to be. Morrigan reluctantly trails after her and rationalizes that both Celene and Trevelyan explicitly ordered that they stay together during the trip. Simple orders, nothing more and nothing less. Not because she wanted to, no.

Leliana turns to give Morrigan a once-over and narrows her eyes on Morrigan’s current shoes. Morrigan shifts in her place. They’re simple leather moccasins, sewn in the Chasind style. They’re the most comfortable shoes she owns, and they’re her favorites for travel. Leliana studies Morrigan, slowly dragging her gaze up until she settles on Morrigan’s face. “Something useful, but also something beautiful,” she muses. “Perhaps a boot with a wedged heel. Darker Nevarran leather rather than Antivan brown would suit you better. Inscribed leather? Yes. I wish we could get you something velvet, something to lace up your ankles.” She glances back at the rack of shoes, and among the rows of frilly white lace and delicate blue heels, she selects a pair of deep purple heels with laces that lie limp and flat along the sides. “Go on, sit down,” Leliana says, gesturing over to a nearby stool.

Morrigan sits down and watches with confusion as Leliana kneels in front of Morrigan. Leliana looks up and asks, “Are you alright with me doing this?” Morrigan wordlessly nods. She also discovers that Leliana has much longer lashes, and she files away the useless detail for later. No, _not_ for later. She pinches herself and tells herself that it’s a useless detail that she can forget.

Leliana reaches out to tug the moccasins off and slips the heels on Morrigan’s feet. She carefully laces up the long strings up Morrigan’s ankle. Morrigan flushes suddenly. The touch of fingers against her ankles and then her legs feels strangely intimate, and her face still feels hot when Leliana looks up again.

“Lovely,” she confirms. She gets up and brushes the dust off her knees. “Go on, try walking around in them.”

The heels are taller than Morrigan personally prefers. She likes shoes without any elevated heels. It’s difficult to sneak around and run around in the palace halls in clicking heels, but Morrigan will say that the concept of using her heels as a weapon is a very appealing thought. She totters around for a few moments before she rights herself and gets accustomed to walking around in them.

“We’ll take them,” Leliana says decisively. “We’ll also take the black Nevarran boots. Is that a set of flats back there? I’d like the one with gold buckles, _merci.”_ She pulls out a handful of coins from her purse and sets them down on the shop counter. Morrigan stares as Leliana and the merchant get all the purchases wrapped up in their own individual boxes.

Leliana and Morrigan leave the shop with heavier bags, and Morrigan has the Nevarran boots on. Leliana tells her to use the purple heels at the palace, and Morrigan shrugs her off. But later, Morrigan avoids Leliana’s telltale smiles when she wears the purple heels to dinner with a matching gown.

 

* * *

 

They go through talks and mince through the careful steps of the Great Game. It’s familiar to Leliana, but playing it again in the heart of Orlais is like re-learning how to ride a bike or swim. She feels rusty, unsharpened, dull. Josephine would have been a much better fit. But Leliana finds that she cannot say no to Josie as easily as she once did. If being here would give Josie a well-deserved break, then Leliana would go on countless trips with Morrigan to wherever the Inquisitor wished. Leliana still thinks that the Inquisitor is hardening the ambassador, forging her in the fires of war and pride and petty cruelty. She hates it because she knows how it transforms people. After all, it happened to her too.

Leliana settles herself in her seat and gives Celene a pleasant smile. The empress and her advisors ring around the round table. Leliana has Morrigan to her right, an advisor to her left, and Celene directly in front of her. Everyone wears a mask, even for Morrigan and Leliana. Morrigan wears a simple mask adorned with black raven feathers while Leliana wears one made of darker brown feathers — like a nightingale.

Celene folds her hands together and says, “The Inquisition promised us that they would have the Venatori out of our beloved country. It has been weeks and _months_ since the Winter Ball, and we have not seen any change.”

“The Inquisition is doing its best with the current amount of resources and influence that we have,” Leliana returns in as pleasant of a tone as she can.

“Oh?” Celene says, mouth open in a wide O. The look on her face lets Leliana know that the empress plans to pounce on the opportunity. “Do you mean to say that the Inquisition is not as influential as Lady Trevelyan led me to believe?”

“Why, her Imperial Highness brings up an excellent point,” one of Celene’s advisors says. “It is undeniable that the Inquisition has not met what Lady Trevelyan promised.”

Briala leans back in her chair beside Celene’s to give Leliana a slow and calculating look. However, she only smiles, waiting for Leliana’s response. Her lips tug apart only enough to reveal the sharp points of her teeth, and Leliana wishes she could bite back with all the blackmail both Trevelyan and she have on the empress and her advisors.

However, Leliana does not. Instead, she inclines her head and says, “Of course not, your Imperial Highness. I mean to say that the Inquisitor is preoccupied with matters that will prevent further damage from crossing over to the borders of Orlais.” She gestures to the wide windows and to the glittering sky. There are no traces of burning green among the clouds. A fact that Leliana wishes to emphasize. “Healing a wound takes time, and so will Orlais,” she says. “And in that time it takes Orlais to heal, the Inquisitor ensures that the Venatori and Corypheus’s influence will not harm Orlais any further. Preventative care does ensure better health in the grand scheme of things, Empress.”

Celene laughs a low chuckle and she taps the small pile of reports in front of her. “But I do not feel as though I have been given a return for all the goodwill I have shown the Inquisitor thus far,” she says. “You say healing a wound takes time, but have you considered the fact that a wound may fester and rot if it takes too long to heal?”

Leliana opens her mouth to retaliate, but before she can say anything, Leliana hears the soft sound of Morrigan clearing her throat. She glances over to see Morrigan leaning forward in her chair and saying lowly, “Your Imperial Highness, I have been in the heart of the Inquisition, and I have seen the depth and the breadth of their efforts.” She reaches out to trace her index finger across the map on the table, outlining various routes into Orlais. “Lady Montilyet bargains with the hearts of nobles across the sea to ensure that trade routes to Orlais remain undisturbed by the Exalted March on Corypheus. Commander Rutherford trains recruits that pour into Skyhold’s gates every day,” she says with each path she follows on the map.

“And Spymaster Leliana…” Morrigan trails off and settles herself back in her seat, gathering her words up to her once more. “Spymaster Leliana is the epicenter of it all. She is the cog that keeps the gears of the Inquisition turning, the one who cuts out the fester and rot from Orlais and Ferelden and nations beyond our borders.” Morrigan’s voice grows stronger and strident as she continues, “She is one of the bastions of protection that Orlais has, and she is even Orlesian herself. How can she abandon her countrymen? Spymaster Leliana has helped to save a nation during the Blight with far less access to her current resources, and she will save nations again and with even more efficacy. I can assure you — and I _have_ assured you — that the Inquisition is doing its best for Orlais.”

Leliana watches her with wide eyes. Every word that Morrigan speaks resonates somewhere deep inside her, somewhere in her soul, and she’s left at a loss for words. She never knew Morrigan felt this way. She keeps her face as blank and expressionless as possible save for the easy smile she laces on her face like a mask — moreso than the actual mask she wears over her face. _She is saying what she must for the Great Game,_ she thinks to herself, trying to rationalize Morrigan’s words.

Celene smiles, and now, the empress allows amusement to flicker over her face, brazen and bold and completely on show. “And what of the Lady Trevelyan herself?” she inquires. “You have so much praise for the advisors, especially Sister Nightingale.” The empress curls her tone ever so carefully around Leliana’s nickname. Celene is ruthless at worst, and she uses any weakness, any hold, she can get on a person. Even her own arcane advisor is not exempt from this.

Morrigan takes in stride as she says, “You already know what she is like, your Imperial Highness. She is a storm, ready to take on Corypheus in any capacity.” Her voice is even with just the right amount of boredom in it.

“Mmm. Thank you for your input, Lady Morrigan,” Celene finally says. “And Sister Nightingale, thank you for traveling all the way here in your ambassador’s stead. Best of luck to the Inquisitor. Where is she now?”

“The Lady Inquisitor is currently traveling in Emprise du Lion, rooting out the last pockets of Venatori there,” Leliana answers.

“Ah, I see. Well then, we thank her for her dedicated service,” Celene says decisively. She starts gathering up her papers, and her advisors follow suit. “May Andraste smile down upon her. I believe both the Inquisitor and I exchanged letters, agreeing to continue on our current arrangements,” Celene says. Simple courtesies, nothing more and nothing less. However, a wicked smile curves over Celene’s lips — the only exposed part of her face — and she chuckles, “Do take care of my arcane advisor on the way back. I’d like her in one piece to continue her job.”

Leliana almost bristles at the implications lying low and heavy in Celene’s voice, but the meeting — and with it, too many hours of the day — is over. The advisors leave with Celene, following after her in a single file line. Briala lingers only for a moment to press a note in Leliana’s hand before she takes her place at Celene’s side. Never her back, Leliana notes.

She glances at the note. _I noticed the new shoes,_ Leliana reads. She crumples the note and pockets it, unwilling to acknowledge it. Instead, she looks up at Morrigan who unlaces the mask from her face with an irritated sigh. “Thank you,” Leliana murmurs. “For what you spoke of before.”

“‘Tis nothing. I spoke the truth,” Morrigan returns, brief and clipped.

Leliana removes her own mask as well and watches Morrigan as she asks, “Did you really think that?”

“Think about what?” Morrigan asks as she gathers up her own things into her bag. Her purple heels click against the floor with every step she takes, and she does not raise her gaze to meet Leliana’s.

Leliana clicks her tongue and says, “You know what I mean, Morrigan.”

Now, Morrigan raises her head, and her golden eyes flash. “I stand by what I said, Leliana,” she says, stepping closer to Leliana now. Every step makes a click against the floor, and she continues, “Would you like me to repeat it? Were you not listening?” She backs Leliana into the corner of the room now, breath hot and heavy on Leliana’s skin.

The heady scent of jasmine and dark amber wash over Leliana’s senses, but Leliana manages to say, “I was. Very carefully, if I may add.”

“Oh?” Morrigan murmurs. Her eyes are lidded, revealing only slivers of gold, and wisps of her dark hair frame the space between them both. The energy between them feels charged, and Leliana confirms it when she reaches up to brush her hand against Morrigan’s shoulder. Her fingers buzz with Morrigan’s magic, and she feels like her entire world is far too hot right now for comfort.

She stares at Morrigan, cataloging every plane and line and freckle of her face, before she asks softly, “Would you mind if I kissed you?”

Morrigan pauses there, stuck between bewilderment and outrage. But then, her expression settles into her usual smirk and she says mockingly, “Would you even dare?”

Oh, Leliana would dare. She leans in to capture Morrigan’s lips in a kiss. Morrigan’s lips are warm and surprisingly soft, and Leliana angles her head to align better with Morrigan. Her hands wander up Morrigan’s back, playing with the laces at the back of her dress. Leliana nips Morrigan’s lips, but Morrigan bites back, giving Leliana a bruising kiss. They part, chests heaving, lips parted, and eyes locked with each other.

Leliana bites her lower lip, and Morrigan’s gaze latches onto the way her teeth flash and her lips flush red. She won’t deny that she finds Morrigan attractive, and she’s kissed people that she hates more. That’s why she leans in to brush her bruised lips lightly across Morrigan’s cheek before she whispers, “I’ll be waiting back in the carriage. Let’s go home.”

She leaves, and her heels click against the polished floors of the imperial palace. Leliana doesn’t hear the sounds of Morrigan’s footsteps behind her until much, much later. The heels she bought for Leliana are not the most silent. Leliana hides a smile to herself, but she still feels a prickle of worry at the back of her throat. Servants still have watchful eyes for their own lords and ladies, and she knows their little display did not go unnoticed in the halls. Still, Leliana lets the soft thrill run up and down her spine and wonders what move Morrigan will make next.

 

* * *

 

Honestly, Morrigan shouldn’t be surprised that she fucks Leliana first. She offered first, let the clothes fall off her own body first. Movements, stray touches, just the sheer physicality of sex makes it so easy. There’s no need to invest more than she needs to. It’s just going through the motions. That’s what she tells herself when she does it. But, she does bite when she pleasures someone. It’s a habit that’s stuck with her, and it’s a habit that haunts her.  Small nips down the neck, small marks that bloom wherever she lays her lips. Things like these help her divorce pleasure and sex between more weak, emotional things like love. After all, her hands can only break and burn.

But Mahariel thought differently. She loved Morrigan in all her different ways and welcomed her bites and nips and responded with equal reciprocity.

Leliana does the same. Equal reciprocity.

Morrigan automatically moves down to nip her way down Leliana’s neck, but then, she remembers how Mahariel liked it. She pauses, and Leliana stops exhaling out soft, pleasured sighs. Instead, she curls in towards Morrigan to whisper, “Are you alright?”

No matter how the years pass, she finds that she remembers Mahariel in the small things. Everyone remembers Mahariel for the greatest deed she ever did — saving Ferelden — but Morrigan remembers her in the way she liked to be kissed and in the way she laughed. But this is not Mahariel. This is Leliana, and now, Morrigan has stayed too still, too quiet, for Leliana to not notice. Besides, Leliana was always perceptive, like Mahariel if not more so.

“We can do this later,” Leliana says. “Or we can stop this entire thing right now and move on. It’s up to you. I won’t force you into doing anything you don’t want to do.”

This seemed like such a good idea at the beginning. They were both stressed, angry, disappointed with each other and the state of the Inquisition. For Leliana, it was the priorities of the Inquisitor. For Morrigan, it was the way Trevelyan dealt with magic and anything else it pertained to. Hate sex wasn’t an issue for Morrigan, and in fact, she thought it would get her mind off of other issues. But this is something unexpected, something different, and Morrigan is not prepared for it.

But Morrigan is not a coward, and she will not back down from this. Part of her wonders if it will be better for her to stop now, but some deep, dark part of her cries out, _I want to be needed, I want to be loved._ Morrigan is not foolish enough to think that Leliana would ever love her, but she knows that she can make anyone _need_ her with the crook of her fingers and a quick bite of her lips. After two times, she thinks she knows what makes Leliana tick and what will make Leliana crest over into the next morning.

Leliana lays a hand on Morrigan’s shoulder and says, “I think we can do this another night.” She fluffs up the pillows by her side and offers Morrigan a space in her bed right beside her. Morrigan eyes her and then eyes the bed, wondering if she should stay. Part of her wants to flee, shift into a different form, take on fur or feathers or paws or wings and leave. But another part of her reminds her that her own room is cold and dark and that the gazebo has nothing to offer her other than the brutal night winds of Skyhold and the glimmering constellations. She glances at the window, but when she looks back, Leliana looks resigned. “I will see you tomorrow then,” she says as she bends her head down. Her hands reach out for her underclothes, tossed carelessly aside on her bedside table.

The other two times, Morrigan left as quickly as a spirit. She didn’t even bother to take her clothes with her after the first time and left as a cat, leaving pawprints across Skyhold in her journey back to somewhere quiet and dark and safe. Leliana showed up at her doorstep the next day with her clothes folded and washed in her hands. The spymaster even had the nerve to add a sprig of lavender between her clothes. “To freshen them up,” she said as she thrust the folded pile at Morrigan. Morrigan watched her leave with a peculiar sensation at the back of her throat, and she pushed both her clothes and her feelings aside.

Morrigan watches Leliana now. Leliana’s fingers are slender, but they appear almost bony when she reaches out. Without her thick layers to shield her, Morrigan sees the toll of work and sleepless nights on Leliana. The signs aren’t as easy to spot as something like disease or hunger or plague, but she sees them. Morrigan also remembers the sprig of lavender and inhales. Leliana still keeps herbs and flowers within her room, and Morrigan can detect the slight note of lavender, delicate and subtle in the air. She shuts her eyes and moves over to Leliana’s side before she loses her nerve. She doesn’t bother reaching for her own clothes and curls into Leliana’s skin, bare and naked and vulnerable under Leliana’s startled gaze.

She _hates_ this sensation of vulnerability. She bared her heart only once in her life, and she paid by watching the one she loved die. Instead of silver hair she wraps her fingers in, it is bright and brilliant scarlet. Gold instead of silver, song instead of gentle silence. This is unacceptable compared to any tenet in her life, but Morrigan feels the warmth and smells lavender, the crisp cotton of the sheets, and the scent of skin laced with the lotions and oils Leliana indulges in. Different than the scent of the forest and the low, bitter-violet traces of the Taint on Mahariel’s skin. But Morrigan finds herself drawn by it.

Morrigan wonders if this was a good decision. Leliana growing kinder to her out of pity or sympathy or her own machinations, Leliana’s words hidden in the shadows of the rookery, all of these let Morrigan know that Leliana could be open to something more physical. But she did not expect the emotions to come along it. Too many old emotions resurface on the layers of Morrigan’s heart that she thought she killed off long ago. Part of her wanted to see if it would settle down Leliana into the old version of her without the softness. Morrigan knows it doesn’t happen, but sometimes, hate sex made people sharper and reminded them of who they were and what they did. But in Leliana’s case, it made her gentle. Morrigan curls her hands into fists when she considers the alternate. Perhaps, she was the one who became more gentle instead of Leliana. That is _intolerable_ for Morrigan. She fears that this one small allowance, this one concession, will erase all of Mahariel from her heart.

 _You do not have to fear love,_ Mahariel once said. But Morrigan is afraid.

But then, Leliana runs a hand down Morrigan’s back before she settles on rubbing soothing circles in the small of Morrigan’s back. She hums a quiet tune, and the melody seems to wrap around Morrigan and lull her into a quiet state. Leliana is not as sharp anymore. She does not have the look of a knife over-sharpened on the whetstone like she does when she stands beside Trevelyan. When Morrigan looks up, she sees only softness in the depths of Leliana’s eyes.

She allows herself to relax. Lets the rigidity flow out of her shoulders. Allows all the pent-up tension to leave her body for a night. Lets go of her fear for a moment. And Morrigan falls asleep beside Leliana to drift into the Fade. The sound of Leliana’s song and Leliana’s heartbeat matching time with Morrigan’s heart accompany her into waking sleep.

 

* * *

 

_Ten years ago._

 

Mahariel is dead.

It is a truth that still stings sharp and true to the center of Leliana’s heart. The funeral was a grand, regal affair that Queen Anora presided over with a watchful eye. Alistair stayed only for an hour: long enough to pay his respects to Mahariel’s casket and speak quietly with each and every companion from their travels.

Leliana watches him move through the crowd. He looks bare, broken, lost without a guide to follow. He talks first with Wynne and then to Zevran. He even stops by to talk with Sten and Shale. Leliana can’t imagine what their words are like, but they are all here for the same purpose.

Mahariel is dead, and they are here to say goodbye to a friend who left too soon.

When Alistair ambles over to her, she gives him a half-hearted wave. “Hello, Alistair,” she says.

Alistair gives her a ghost of his former smile. “Hullo there,” he says. He stands beside her and watches the throng of people grow and grow around Mahariel’s casket.

“Are you… Are you alright?” Leliana asks. Her words sound so thin to her, but it’s the best thing that she can offer up.

Alistair looks at her and searches for something in Leliana’s face. “No, Leliana. I’m not,” he sighs. He drops his gaze down to the ground and stares at that instead.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

A hushed interlude falls between them, thick as a curtain, and Leliana continues to watch the proceedings. A group from the Dalish clan Mahariel saved in the Brecilian forest now sings. Their voices rise and fall in the shapes of elvhen syllables that Leliana doesn’t understand, but she does understand the grief that laces through every note.

Alistair clears his throat beside her and says, “I stopped by to say thank you for your help during the Blight.” His voice and words are all stilted, all garbled together in a way that Alistair doesn’t normally speak. She suspects that this is the standard saying that he’s prepared.

“It was an adventure that brought all of us together,” she says, trying for some levity.

That earns her a snort. “Funny, isn’t that?” Alistair says much more normally. “How a terrible, horrible Blight manages to bring us all together and all that good friendship stuff.”

Now that is the Alistair she knows. Leliana turns her gaze from the elves to Alistair. “What do you plan to do now?” she wonders.

Alistair shrugs, “Keep on doing my Warden work, I suppose. They say they need a leader to guide the Wardens in Ferelden now. Weisshaupt wants to make me Warden-Commander of Ferelden.”

“Congratulations,” Leliana says. She pats Alistair’s shoulders. “I can’t think of anyone else better for the job.”

“No,” Alistair bites out. The vehemence contained within the single syllable startles Leliana and she pulls her hand away. “That title was meant to be Mahariel’s,” Alistair grits out. “She would’ve been a better choice than me.”

“Ah,” Leliana says, once again at a loss for words. She searches for something better to say and settles on, “Are you going to reject Weisshaupt’s directive?”

Alistair rubs his wrist with his other hand in a thoughtless manner. Over and over, he rubs around his wrist in a circle, and Leliana recognizes it. But Alistair finally says, “No. That wouldn’t be what Mahariel wanted. I’m going to Vigil’s Keep next. I think Weisshaupt wants me to start rebuilding the Order in a safer place, and Anora offered that up.” He snorts now, somber and bitter. “She’s also making me Arl of Amaranthine since Mahariel killed the last arl.”

“Oh, congratulations again for that,” Leliana says, trying to inject some more light-hearted cheer in her voice.

Alistair’s expression darkens. “I don’t like the thought of that. I’m not the leader type.”

Leliana shakes her head resolutely. “I believe you can do it, Alistair,” she insists. “You don’t give yourself enough credit.”

Alistair stops rubbing his wrist and humorlessly says, “Ha, you sound like Mahariel now.” That stings more than Leliana expects, but Alistair drops his hands limply to his sides and asks, “What are you going to do now then?”

Leliana exhales out a long, heavy breath. “I… I will return to Orlais,” she says. The words are too heavy on her tongue. Orlais holds too many memories for her, but Ferelden now holds far too many memories than Orlais. Leliana swallows down her pride and says, “There is a town called Valence there, and I know someone at the Chantry there. Revered Mother Dorothea once harbored me there, offered me safety and peace of mind. I think… I think that is what I need right now.”

“Oh. Good luck with that,” Alistair says. His eyes are pinned on her, and they don’t move even when Leliana murmurs her thanks. Leliana purses her lips and wonders if she should say anything about it, but she’s interrupted when Alistair blurts out, “I just had one last question.”

“What is it?” Leliana asks.

“Why did you hold me back?”

Leliana gapes at Alistair, and his question hits her hard, almost knocking pent-up breath out of her lungs in a choking gasp. She furrows her brow and remembers how she snatched Alistair’s wrist and yanked him back at the tower. The same place that Alistair was rubbing on his wrist. The same circle, the same shape that Leliana’s hand made when she pulled him back with as much force as she could muster up. It was only a moment, but it was a moment long enough to buy time for Mahariel. Enough time for Mahariel to make the final sacrifice.

“You know what I’m talking about. During the Battle of Denerim,” Alistair says. His voice shakes with grief and anger and too much regret, but he continues with a dogged stubbornness. “Why did you hold me back from attacking the Archdemon at that last moment? Why didn’t you let me deal the final blow instead of Mahariel?” He splays his hand out on his chest, and now, Leliana can see the tears glittering in his eyes. “I could have killed the Archdemon. I could have taken the final sacrifice instead of Mahariel. Look at everyone. They’re all here for someone that I could have saved.”

Alistair looks at Leliana, and he looks so _painfully_ lost. “Why won’t you answer me?” he whispers. The last word trembles, dancing on the edge between desperation and agony.

Leliana can picture the battlefield in her mind’s eye. The arrow in her shoulder, the bruises blooming up and down her body, the scent of rot and taint heavy in the air. Mahariel dragging her fallen greatsword up and stabbing it into the Archdemon’s skull. The explosion of light that blinded Leliana’s eyes and the high, keening sound of Morrigan’s sob that tore through the air first. Almost as if the witch knew it was going to happen.

Leliana focuses on Alistair again and murmurs, “I pulled you back because Mahariel wanted me to. I didn’t… I didn’t know she was going to die. She only wanted me to keep you out of harm’s way, and she specifically requested that I keep you from striking the final blow.” She shakes her head and chokes out, “I don’t know why, I don’t know her reasons for it. But I kept my last promise to her.”

Alistair’s grip slackens on Leliana’s hand, and he lets it slip out of his grasp. He sucks in a deep, heaving breath, and he says quietly, “I see.” He hesitates before he takes the plunge and asks, “What else did she ask you for?”

Leliana blinks. She tries to remember all of Mahariel’s words — an easy feat, almost all of her words are ingrained perfectly in her memory now — and she says slowly, “She asked me… She asked me to stay kind.”

Alistair offers her a wry smile. “Well, that’s easy enough. You’re one of the nicest people I know.”

“Really?” Leliana says with a wrinkle in her nose. Disbelief colors the word so thoroughly that it makes Alistair laugh.

“Yeah. Really,” he assures her.

Leliana huffs out a soft laugh in turn. “Thank you, Alistair.”

Alistair smiles, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes like it used to. “No problem,” he says. He shoves his hands behind his back and says, “I’ll… I’ll be off then.”

Leliana watches him and feels a sense of finality when she says, “Goodbye, Alistair.”

 

* * *

 

_Nine years ago._

 

The eluvians shimmer and thrum with magic that Morrigan barely understands. She clutches her mother’s grimoire close to her chest — one of Mahariel’s last gifts to her — and hurries through the next eluvian. If she calculated this correctly, she should be in Nevarra by now. Somewhere in the depths of the earth, there hides an old, magical artifact. Morrigan needs that to confirm some of her suspicions.

There are many things about her mother that she still doesn’t know.

There are also many things about the world that she simply doesn’t know yet. The recent news of the battle at Amaranthine shocked her. The regular reports indicate that it was simply a surge of darkspawn leftover from the Blight, but she flew to Amaranthine herself on black raven wings to investigate. There, she heard about sentient darkspawn and magic far beyond what she understands.

Perhaps in Nevarra, she will find her answers. The Mortalitasi here honor their dead far beyond what Morrigan has ever heard of, and she hopes to find something leftover among the bones of the dead. She doubts her mother is dead. Flemeth was always a more stubborn creature than that, and although Mahariel came back with Flemeth’s blood spattered across her armor, Morrigan cannot bring herself to believe it quite yet.

Flemeth is still out there, and if Morrigan’s suspicions are correct, then Flemeth poses the true threat to Thedas itself. Morrigan will protect Ferelden since Mahariel is no longer there to protect her nation herself. If Ferelden was worth Mahariel’s life, then Morrigan promises herself that she will protect it. A final promise to the dead.

She traverses the Crossroads with ease. Her first times here were stumbling messes of a journey, but after a few years, Morrigan thinks she’s doing alright. She travels down the road leading to the Nevarran eluvian, but something tugs her to a different mirror. She steps down the cobblestoned path and finds that there are more eluvians activated than she originally thought.

Morrigan moves closer but not through the mirrors yet. She peers through them and runs her finger down the side of the mirror. The glass ripples, and Morrigan sees Orlais. She wrinkles her brow with confusion. Someone is activating the eluvians or using ones that were previously established. She almost steps through to investigate, but a sudden surge of energy rattles through the Crossroads.

Morrigan jerks back and starts running towards the source of the energy. She can feel the pure waves of magic resonate through the Crossroads, shaking the branches and making their blossoms fall down in a rain of pink petals. Morrigan grits her teeth and sprints even faster until she reaches the right mirror. She runs her hands down the sides of the mirror, but the glass refuses to ripple. Morrigan pounds her fists against the glass, trying to get through, but eventually, the energy ceases.

The Crossroads return to their normal state, but the blossoms on the floor remain there, pink and everlasting. Morrigan slumps against the mirror and decides to wait until she can gain access to the eluvian before moving on to Nevarra. Time passes, but Morrigan isn’t sure how fast. Time works strangely here in the Crossroads. When Morrigan sleeps, her dreams are far more vivid as they are wont to do here. The barrier between her reality and the Fade is far thinner and tenuous here compared to the reality outside the Crossroads.

Morrigan dreams about Mahariel in the Brecilian Forest, blending in so easily with the rest of her Dalish brethren and looking more alive among the wilderness and the tall trees. She also dreams about Mahariel at the Tower of Ishal, weary and newly burdened with her Warden status. She dreams about her mother carrying Mahariel and Alistair to safety within the Wilds and nursing them back to health. She wakes up with a jolt, eyes snapping open. Morrigan half expects to see her mother, Mahariel, and Alistair right there beside her when she wakes up.

She only sees the eluvian instead.

Morrigan turns and tries the eluvian again. When the glass ripples, Morrigan steps through without doubt. She comes out and finds herself in the depths of a mountain. She picks her way through the stalagmites and boulders. She transforms herself into a giant spider when she sees the packs of spiders hanging from their thick webs near the stalactites. Morrigan scuttles through the tunnels, using footsteps from other explorers and flatter paths as her guide. She emerges in the bright daylight and shifts back into the form of a woman as she exits. From her vantage point, she can see an old graveyard and symbols carved into stone pillars. Morrigan creeps closer and recognizes the glyphs.

Sundermount.

Morrigan shifts into a raven now and flies with desperate speed towards the top of the mountain. Her mother told her about Sundermount once. The tallest mountain of the Vimmark mountains and the one with the most fearsome reputation. _Magisters and elves alike tore out monsters and horrors and sent them into the living world there, my girl,_ Flemeth’s voice whispers in Morrigan’s memory. _Some tore flesh with their teeth while others drank blood with a voracious thirst. Some preferred to possess their prey and slowly eat them from the inside out. Proof that men will do whatever they can to win a war._

A war. Morrigan doesn’t know what war. Flemeth never cared to specify, but that was one of the fearsome stories she told Morrigan before bedtime. Morrigan lands on her regular human feet and sheds her wings as easily as she breathes. In front of her lies a stone altar, dedicated to the elven goddess, Mythal. But instead of being coated with dust or dirt, it is freshly clean and freshly used. A single amulet remains on the surface, and Morrigan steps closer. Horror grows dark and bitter at the bottom of her heart, and she recognizes the familiar lines and jagged edges of the amulet.

It seems as though Flemeth is still alive, somewhere in this world.

Morrigan turns on her heel to leave as quickly as she came. She lunges forward, shifting and shedding shapes from a wolf to a bear to a giant spider to a cougar. Finally, she propels herself into the air and takes flight again as a raven back to her eluvian, back to the Crossroads. Morrigan tumbles into the Crossroads, chest heaving and desperation dilating her eyes. Flemeth is back, and Morrigan checks over her bag for her mother’s grimoire. Good, it’s still there. She pulls her cloak tighter to her skin but shivers despite the fabric. Morrigan doesn’t know what to do, but her feet start wandering over the gauzy expanse of the Crossroads.

She finds herself in front of the network of newly activated eluvians in Orlais and wonders what there is in Orlais to trigger such a use. Morrigan glances behind her shoulder in the direction of the eluvian that leads to the Free Marches. She makes up her mind right there, right then. Nevarra can wait. Instead, she plunges into the rippling void that will take her to Orlais.

 

* * *

 

 

“Why do you work for the Inquisition?” Morrigan asks as she idly twirls Leliana’s bra in her hand. Leliana narrows her eyes at Morrigan; that pair of lingerie was _expensive._ But Morrigan continues to twirl it around her finger with the bra strap and arches her brow expectantly, waiting for the answer.

Leliana’s shoulders slump, and the sheet slips further down as she sighs, “It is my duty.” She glances at the window. Despite the heavy curtains, she can still see the rays of morning sunlight peek through the edges of the curtains. She should be getting up and dressed. She should be grabbing her underclothes from Morrigan and pulling on her own tunic and _getting back to work._ But she doesn’t. Instead, she watches Morrigan through the curtain of her own hair.

“Is it now?” Morrigan asks. “Or are you simply clinging onto the last remnants of that Divine woman?”

“Morrigan,” Leliana warns. They are getting dangerously close to the intangible line they’ve drawn over certain subjects, and this is one of them.

“What? I speak the truth, do I not?” Morrigan retorts. She tosses Leliana’s bra aside as she leans in to say, “You hold onto the remnants of that woman because you have nothing else to hold onto. She is dead.” Morrigan slows down her words to enunciate each one clearly and says, “There is nothing left for you. You have no more orders to follow from her. You are not beholden to her anymore.”

Leliana’s eyes harden into brittle points of light. “Do _not_ speak of her like that,” she says. Her voice edges into a snarl.

Morrigan ignores the warning. “Did you not hear what the Seeker said?” she says instead.

Leliana knows what she’s talking about. Cassandra came back from the Fade with a haunted look in her eyes and a shake in her hands. If Leliana didn’t know any better, she would say it was lyrium or from the nature of the experience. But Cassandra does not drink lyrium. Leliana settles on the other option. She experienced the Fade once with Mahariel and Morrigan and Alistair. The Fade was not kind to newcomers, and almost everyone of Trevelyan’s motley group that night were new to the Fade. But Cassandra came back, talking about how she saw a false Divine within the scarred landscape of the Fade.

“The Inquisitor said that the ghost of Divine Justinia was real,” Leliana says. Her voice is stilted, and her expression is rigid like it was carved out of stone. She says the words, trying to believe them, but it only feels like she’s going through the motions. “The Inquisitor said that Andraste had a role to play in all of this.”

Morrigan observes Leliana, and she can feel Morrigan’s gaze pierce through her. “Since when have you believed the Inquisitor?” she asks. “Since when have you trusted the Inquisitor over your Seeker? Even your Seeker came back from the Fade with more doubt than anyone else.”

“She’s not mine,” Leliana says tightly.

Morrigan leans back against the pillows to say, “Mmm, I suppose not. She’s your ambassador’s Seeker, is she not?” If Leliana remembers correctly, Morrigan had the distinct misfortune to walk into the ambassador’s office and see them necking in the corner like a pair of teenagers.

Leliana relaxes. Her shoulders lower by a fraction, and she sighs, “People are allowed to choose who they love and trust, Morrigan.”

“Oh no, I was not implying that their union was any less or unworthy,” Morrigan says. Amusement makes her voice flicker with a restrained chuckle. “I was simply stating a fact. They make a happy couple.”

“At least someone’s happy around here,” Leliana grumbles. She tosses her underclothes aside and slumps beside Morrigan. Her fingers toy with the edge of the blanket, and her gaze is focused on something far away.

Morrigan says, “Tut, tut, Leliana. Do I detect a note of _jealousy_ in your voice?”

Leliana shoots her a withering glare and says, “If anything, _you_ are the jealous one.”

“If that is what you wish to think, then be my guest,” Morrigan hums. She props herself up on her elbows and faces Leliana. “But we are digressing from our main point. Why are you still here, Leliana?” She gestures to the window where the general direction of the Inquisitor’s quarters are. “Why are you still here, praying for help from a dead prophet and a god who has abandoned your Chantry not once but _twice_ . In fact, I might even say thrice since your Maker chose to send _that_ woman as the precious Herald of your precious Andraste. Your Divine is gone. Your Herald is a false one who preys on the fears of Chantry simpletons. There is nothing left.”

Leliana’s eyes flash and she sits up as she cries, “Because! I have nothing else to hold onto. Are you satisfied now, Morrigan?! Are you satisfied?” She shakes her head bitterly and bites out a cold laugh. “Oh, but I guess you’re never satisfied. You never have been, not even with Mahariel."

And that is the moment Leliana knows she has crossed the line.

“Mahariel,” Morrigan says slowly. She says the name like she is breathing out the name of a god, and Leliana would not deny the half-truth of that. “You know _nothing_ of what transpired between us,” Morrigan says, tight and bitter and dark. “Do not even mention her name.”

“Oh, am I forever bound to silence when it comes to Mahariel?” Leliana asks. Her voice pitches up higher with irritation and grief. “She was my friend too, Morrigan, and I know.” She steadies herself by clenching her fists, rumpling the part of the sheets she still has in her hands. “I wasn’t the one to selfishly abandon her, to leave her, to break her heart before the day of her death.”

Mahariel came to her that night, eyes puffy and red from crying, with one last wish. Leliana woke up, frightened and alarmed. She expected Mahariel to be spending the night before the battle with her love, but Mahariel bore no marks like she normally did after a night with Morrigan. Instead, she only had tears. When Leliana asked about Morrigan, Mahariel only shook her head and cried even harder. “Morrigan has made her decision and I have made mine,” she said. Leliana gaped at her as she continued, “I know you, Leliana, and I trust you with more than my life. I trust you with the lives of our friends, with the fate of this country, with this one last wish. I cannot tell you more, but _please,_ do not let them sacrifice themselves for me. Please do not sacrifice yourself for me either. I have started this journey, my _dinan’shiral,_ and I will end my journey the same way I started. Protect them, Leliana. Protect _her.”_

And like the friend she promised Mahariel she would be, Leliana went to go check on Alistair. Leliana was the one to keep an eye out on the battlefield with her long daggers in hand, ready to keep anyone from interfering with Alistair or Morrigan. She took an arrow in the shoulder for Morrigan, shot down an emissary aiming for Alistair, and stabbed a genlock coming for Mahariel. And it was Leliana who grabbed Alistair’s wrist and stopped him when Mahariel dragged a sword off the ground to stab it into the Archdemon.

“Leliana, you blasted little —”

“Go ahead, ignore me, spite me, do what you have done to me during the Blight,” Leliana challenges. Her voice rises as she speaks, but her tone remains sharper than the edges of her own daggers. “You’ve said worse. But you’re never satisfied, are you? You broke Mahariel’s heart the night before the great battle and you watched as she died for all of us. As she died for _you._ And then, you left as if nothing ever mattered to you. Selfish woman.”

“Once,” Morrigan says. The hollows of her cheeks look more gaunt when she bends her head down and stares at her hands folded in her lap. “Once,” she repeats. “I cared for nothing and no one other than myself. And once, I wanted the soul of a god. Not for myself, but for something bigger and greater than the rest of us. But then… Back then, I only wished to save her. Only her.” Morrigan looks back up at Leliana, and there’s a kind of wetness to her eyes that Leliana has never seen before. “I would have paid the world and more for Mahariel’s life.”

“What do you mean?” Leliana breathes out. She doesn’t know if she wants to know the answer or not, but too late. The words slip out unbidden from her mouth.

“The death of an Archdemon requires a sacrifice from the Grey Warden who kills it,” Morrigan says, each word sharp and clipped. “If I went through with my ritual, then I would have taken the Archdemon’s soul and keep it from killing Mahariel, but she told me…” Morrigan’s voice cracks and she shudders before she continues, “She told me that she valued me more and refused to put me in harm’s way. She feared that I would die or change a fundamental part of myself if I took on the Archdemon’s soul to spare her life. That is all, nothing more and nothing less. I wished to save her life, and she wished to save mine.” Morrigan shakes her head, and now, the dark circles under her eyes seem more pronounced. Morrigan’s eyes glitter with unshed grief, and she warns, “You do not know what torment is until you have someone you love die in your arms, knowing that you could have saved them from the very start.”

Leliana hesitates before she tries, “Morrigan…”

“What? Is this not what you wanted?” Morrigan asks. A bitter laugh laces through her words as she spits out, “This is the truth, simple as that. Let me tell you one thing, and then let us speak of it no more. Love is a weakness. Love is a cancer that grows inside and makes one do foolish things. Love is death.”

She swings her legs out of the bed and starts gathering up her clothes. She dresses herself with brutal efficiency, and Leliana watches her with round, wide eyes. “I’m sorry,” she says. She knows there’s no point though. Her words are half-hearted, defeated. She’s spent too much of her life dancing on the edge of a knife to know when something falls too short or too far. This is another one of those cases.

Morrigan pauses before she exits. She glances back, and Leliana sees the way a single tear slides down her cheek. The curve of her shoulder shakes only once before she says quietly, “As am I.”

Morrigan leaves without another word.

 

* * *

 

She gets what she wants.

It’s simple and easy as that, and it’s hard to forget that despite the blood on her hands and the voices in her head. Everything seems light and hazy, blurred at the edges, and in the cacophony of elvhen voices screaming into her ears, Morrigan thinks she can hear Mahariel. She squints her eyes. The water floating around her, frozen into a permanent blast, refracts the light in such a way that makes Morrigan think she can see Mahariel. Brown skin, pale glass-like eyes, streaks of black in a sea of silver.

But her face is pained, sorrow etched through the silver, and Morrigan suddenly remembers that Mahariel died to prevent her from being affected by a greater force. But perhaps fate has a fickle hand and sifts through the deaths and the sacrifices to do what it originally intended to do.

Mahariel mouths something to her, but Morrigan can’t hear it among the other voices. That makes her angry, and she tries to yank all of the other voices away from her senses so that she can hear her love. Mahariel bows her head and reaches her spectral hands out to cup Morrigan’s face. She leans her forehead against Morrigan, and then, the voices cease to speak and return to a blessed silence.

 _You did your best,_ Mahariel says softly. _I am sorry that things had to come to this._

“I chose this,” Morrigan struggles to say. Her mind is torn between the susurrant murmurings of the elves and Mahariel’s voice.

_Alright. Live on, vhenan, live on without me and do not be afraid to love. You are made of more love than you think yourself to be. Do not be afraid to be weak. Ar lath ma._

“I love you,” Morrigan chokes out. She claws at the magic permeating the air and drags herself up. The water starts to dissipate into mist, and with it, Mahariel begins to turn translucent. Morrigan doesn’t know how she could love anyone else in the world when she looks at Mahariel, but Mahariel places her finger against Morrigan’s lips.

 _It is alright to love someone else,_ Mahariel chuckles. She leans in to kiss Morrigan, but Morrigan doesn’t feel anything but air. _I will always support you, vhenan. Do not be afraid._

A single tear slides down Morrigan’s cheek as she watches Mahariel dissipate into the air. The world returns to normal, but when Morrigan slowly turns around, she sees the world in vibrant colors. The sunlight filtering through the temple has a more golden hue to it that casts Abelas’s body on the ground in a soft wash of lustrous light. Morrigan looks at Trevelyan who taps her foot expectantly. The blood on her armor is now a mix of brilliant crimson and darker burgundy where old and fresh blood overlaps.

So many sacrifices to get what she wanted in the end.

The voices don’t start speaking again until she passes through the eluvian.

Her mind is in disarray. Even the chattering of Inquisition troops pales in comparison to the cacophony she has trapped in her head. Some of the voices call out to Mythal, to the Guardian of Mythal, to the Sentinels that now lie dead and rotting on the temple floor. Morrigan latches onto one voice that resounds louder than a clarion, and the voice screams about dragons and forms that shift into different shapes. She scribbles the thought out onto a piece of paper and shoves it into her pocket before she collapses on her bedroll, clutching her head.

She struggles to get her head in order, even at Skyhold, and retreats to her room. She does not return to her usual post at the gazebo and doesn’t even bother to start writing her report for Celene. At some point during the night, Morrigan hears a soft knock at the door. She groans, and the door hinges squeak as someone pushes the door open.

“Are you alright?” Leliana’s voice calls out. Too loud, _too loud,_ and Morrigan clamps her hands over her ears.

“Hush,” Morrigan snaps. “Your voice is too loud.”

Leliana comes into Morrigan’s line of sight, and she looks worried. Her dark circles look even more prominent than usual, and her expression creases into one of worry when she sees Morrigan. She tugs a glove off her hand and reaches out to caress Morrigan’s face. Morrigan already knows that she’s running something close to a fever with the level of magical memory trapped inside of her, but Leliana’s hand feels so refreshingly cool. Morrigan leans into Leliana’s touch without even knowing.

Leliana’s eyes widen, and she pulls away to tug off her other glove. She sets both on the bedside table and sits on the bed beside Morrigan. “You’re feverish,” she whispers, voice barely audible. But to Morrigan, it finally sounds like it’s at a normal volume.

“To be expected,” Morrigan grits out. She clenches her hands when the voices start screaming again, and she shuts her eyes tightly.

Leliana’s hands probe over Morrigan’s skin, checking for any bruises or injuries. As she does so, she hums a gentle lullaby that somehow avoids to pain Morrigan’s ears. Leliana peels back some of the covers and massages out some of the tenseness in Morrigan’s shoulders. When Morrigan doesn’t protest, Leliana shifts from humming to singing.

“You could sing the sun into flight,” Morrigan manages to croak out. The sounds of ancient elves resume in a cacophony at the sound of her hoarse voice, but Leliana’s soft voice chases them away.

Leliana finishes the verse she’s singing and bends her head down to whisper, “Then we shall sing the dawns into being, _ma cherie,_ we shall sing the days into the sky.”

“Foolish,” Morrigan laughs, her voice barely more than a breath of air. “So utterly foolish. Even in the midst of my pain, you manage to pull out something like _poetry.”_

“I am a bard,” Leliana answers simply. “And I was raised in Orlais. Besides, you started it.”

Morrigan chuckles, and every breath she takes in makes her head throb like nothing else. She presses her hand flat against Leliana’s chest and strains to hear her heartbeat. Once she finds the rhythm of it, she focuses herself on that and slowly chokes out the other voices in her head. “Very well,” she says. “Then we shall sing the sun into flight. Together.”

“Together,” Leliana whispers, voice almost overflowing with love. Morrigan once thought that was something to dislike, something to avoid, something that she would never feel again. _Not after Mahariel,_ she once swore. _Never anyone else._ But when Morrigan looks at Leliana and sees the way love softens the edges of her sharp expression, Morrigan thinks this might be it. This might be it again, and her heart might be able to feel something else other than Mahariel’s absence for once. She will not be afraid.

“Together,” Morrigan repeats before she shuts her eyes and curls in closer to Leliana.

 

* * *

 

Leliana lifts her head up when she hears the flutter and flap of wings that snap the cold air of the rookery into a short, sharp sound. A raven lands neatly on her desk, but it bears no note on its legs. Its gleaming golden eyes glance at her, once, twice, before Leliana sighs, “Please, Morrigan. We have doors for good reason.”

Morrigan settles down on the edge of the desk, and Leliana watches as the outline of the raven shifts. In the blur, Leliana thinks she spots the dark brown fur of a bear, the many legs of a spider, and the gleaming eyes of a cat. But within the myriad of colors and flickers of magic, a shape of a woman emerges to sit on her desk.

“To what occasion do I enjoy the pleasure of your company?” Leliana asks as she sets a letter aside. She reaches in her drawers for a new bottle of ink, heedless of the woman sitting on her desk. She’s had worse happen to her, and frankly, she’s just glad that Morrigan decided to show up here instead of a more inopportune time.

“I can leave if you wish me to,” Morrigan replies with an arched eyebrow. She reaches out to trace her long fingertip against the parchment of another report. Symbols cover the paper front to back — Baker’s personal code again — and Morrigan eyes it with an interested gleam in her golden eyes. Morrigan shifts to a different form. A black cat with the same glint in her eyes. She pads around and paws at additional reports.

“You won’t be able to decipher some of those without the correct cipher,” Leliana warns. “And don’t try. They don’t involve you.”

The cat bats the letters off the desk.

Leliana bites off a sigh before it can exhale out of her lungs and reaches down to pick them up. Typical Morrigan.

Morrigan shifts back to her usual human form and waits until Leliana is seated on her chair again. Then, she leans against the back of Leliana’s chair to whisper into Leliana’s ear. “You had something to say that you did not say last night,” she murmurs. The breath of her words tickle against Leliana’s ear.

“And you came all the way here for that?” Leliana muses. “Rare.”

Morrigan huffs out a low chuckle. “Perhaps you were too busy moaning to voice your opinion. That is not a rare occurrence.”

True. Leliana will concede that at the very least. But she does not want to voice the sentiment that she thought last night while Morrigan was slipping off her underclothes and brushing her fingertips across Leliana’s skin. It was a thought that once chilled the space between them. She does not know if it is… Prudent. If it is prudent to say it now. _Nothing ever breaks,_ Marjolaine’s voice reminds her, but this is something that she must tread carefully with. “You told me that love was death once,” she finally chooses to say.

“I did.”

“You’re right.”

Morrigan pauses before she circles around the chair to look Leliana in the eye. “What?” she scoffs. “Is this some sort of miracle? Some work done by your precious Maker? Are you actually admitting to being wrong? Leliana, have you been drinking?”

 _“No,_ just let me finish my thought,” Leliana snaps back. She glances over to the note and wishes that she could express her thoughts as easily as one of her ciphers. Symbol for symbol, square for square, transversing over gaps and pauses in communication with nothing more than the scratch of graphite across parchment.

“Alright, alright,” Morrigan says, relenting and standing aside. “What do you have on your mind?”

Leliana gathers her thoughts up, combing them through and trying to sort them in order. “Love is death in that it consumes you,” she says. She speaks each word slowly, carefully, trying to savor it on her tongue to see if it is the right word to say. “It fills your thoughts and when it’s over, it feels like death. But in order to experience death, you need to have life, so I believe your love is also life.” She hesitates before she reaches out and holds Morrigan’s hand: gentle, soft, nothing like the bitter-ice grip on a dagger or a sword. “There is a spark of joy in it, something special that makes you feel more alive than you ever have. That is why it feels like death when it finally leaves.”

Morrigan rakes her gaze up and down Leliana’s face, but she does not let Leliana’s hand go. “And your point is?” she asks in the same, low tone as Leliana.

Leliana takes in a deep breath and says, “It’s time to move on, Morrigan. It’s time to live.”

“What do you mean,” Morrigan says in a flat, dead voice. The words are meant to shape out a question, but there is no note of questioning, no note of hesitation. It is so completely flat, but Leliana thinks she can hear a raw edge to it. Mahariel was always a sensitive topic.

“Mahariel wouldn’t want you to live like this,” Leliana says.

Morrigan’s eyes flash. “What do you know of Mahariel?!” she snaps, brittle and razor-thin. “You know nothing!”

Leliana looks at Morrigan and sees who she once was, reflected back in Morrigan’s golden irises. “I know enough to see a dying person when I see one,” she says.

“You know nothing,” Morrigan snarls. Her voice is low, and Leliana thinks she can glimpse all the wildness in Morrigan. All of her shapes taught to her by the wild, all of the gold from suns and fires and stars unknown to everyone except for Morrigan and her old magic.

Leliana blinks, but her gaze does not waver. “I know enough,” she says evenly as she keeps her gaze level with Morrigan’s own.

Morrigan slumps against the edge of Leliana’s desk, and her nails dig into the wood with unnatural sharpness. “Why are you doing this?” she finally asks.

Leliana reaches out to lay her hand over Morrigan’s cold hand. She can feel the dull prickles of magic flickering over Morrigan’s skin, but she keeps her hand there. “I am doing one last thing that Mahariel asked me to do,” she says.

“What, torment other people?” Morrigan says with too much bitterness. “Tease them until they are broken and bleeding?”

But Morrigan does not move her hand away. Not yet. Leliana bends her head and contemplates over old memories and words spoken years and years ago. They still sound bright and clear in Leliana’s mind though.

_Protect them, Leliana. Protect her._

Leliana debates with herself for only a moment before she confesses, “She asked me to protect you.”

Morrigan pulls her hand away now as she hisses, “I need no such protection.” Now, her teeth look sharper in the set of her mouth, and every word she says flashes the bright white edge of her canines.

Leliana shakes her head. “You are not protecting yourself against yourself,” she says. “You are simply too afraid.”

Morrigan freezes, expression stilling and glazing into a look that Leliana recognizes. Ghosts of old memories must haunt Morrigan now. Leliana’s spent too many days mired in dreams and thoughts of better times, and even Josephine tells her when her eyes turn haunted and nearly vacant. Morrigan wears the same expression, and Leliana uses that as an opportunity to continue. “You have enough love to fill the world if you wished. You only have to let go of that fear,” she says. Her mouth twists wryly as she repeats Marjolaine’s words. “Nothing ever breaks. Things change, but nothing ever breaks. You do what you can with whatever you have left.”

Morrigan bends her head but with excruciatingly slow motions. She moves as though the act of moving pains her, and Leliana gets up to brush her hand over Morrigan’s shoulder and gently up the curve of her neck to her cheek. Morrigan looks at her with too much pain in her eyes, and Leliana wonders if Morrigan can see the same pain mirrored in her own.

They have both lost too much. Living through a war and surviving it are things they share in common, and now, they are trapped in another one. But not all wars are won with swords. Leliana would count it as a victory if they managed to remain soft. Leliana wants that so very much, wants it with a kind of yearning that buckles through her bones. And she lets it. She lets her body bend towards Morrigan and curve over her body.

Morrigan’s hands move over Leliana’s skin, not touching until she reaches the back of Leliana’s neck and her scarlet hair. There, she settles her fingers with a nearly imperceptible touch. “How did you manage to choose those words?” she asks. “Did Mahariel tell you those too?”

“It’s what I think Mahariel would say,” Leliana murmurs against Morrigan’s skin.  

“Very well,” Morrigan breathes out. “Let us be soft then.” She angles her head to kiss Leliana, and Leliana yields to Morrigan willingly. Leliana tries to press in as much love as she can into each kiss, each touch she gives to Morrigan. They both bloom under each other's touch.

_Let us be kind._

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote a fic about [josephine and cassandra](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17357048) in what i considered to be the game's worst world state + i was interested in exploring that universe a little more. i really enjoy the concept of two people making each other better people, and i wanted to explore how the worst situation could force two people to re-evaluate their connections and perspectives. this fic ended up being less about that and how the previous war (the fifth blight) affected leliana and morrigan as they fight a new war.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what your thoughts on it were!


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